Michiko's Nostalgia Trip
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: <html><head></head>When Leslie's best friend's father dies, she asks for a reminiscing session to help her feel better. Follows 'Unconventional Doll'.</html>
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _Here comes another retrospective! It's my hope that this format will help me write a little more quickly; April has been a crazy month for me this year and things have finally started to settle down a bit. There will be eight adapted episodes in this story; enjoy, and please let me know what you think!_

* * *

><p>§ § § - April 16, 2007<p>

Christian and Leslie were preparing to begin their "weekend", which always comprised a Monday and a Tuesday, when the phone rang. Susanna loved the phone; one of her Christmas presents several months before had been a play telephone, and she had all but abandoned her other toys in favor of it, pretending to call everyone she knew—her brother and sister, her parents, her grandfather, even Ingrid. Whenever the real phone rang, she streaked for the nearest one—and sometimes grabbed it before either of her parents could get to it. And that was the case this time. "Hi, hi," babbled the little girl happily.

"Susanna, give that to Mommy," Leslie coaxed.

Susanna merely turned her back on her mother and went on talking cheerfully. "I got all my toys today, come see?"

Leslie reached for her daughter, but Christian, who had been standing in front of the TV set reprogramming channels, lifted a hand to stop her, winked at her, and stealthily stretched a hand out over Susanna's shoulder. Before the child knew it, he'd whisked the phone out of her hand. Susanna squalled indignantly as Christian handed the phone to a grinning Leslie. "Sometimes you have to catch them by surprise," he said.

"Yeah, she's getting too smart lately," Leslie agreed with a laugh. "Thanks, my love." He grinned back, turning to Susanna while she spoke into the phone. "Hello, sorry about that—what can I do for you?"

Roarke was on the other end, chuckling. "I see Susanna is as entranced with the telephone as ever. I am sorry to bother you so soon after you've arrived home, Leslie, but I am afraid I have some sad news." His voice sobered. "I've just been informed that our former sheriff and your friend Michiko's father, Masato Tokita, has passed away."

"Oh no," exclaimed Leslie, catching Christian's attention. "How is that possible? He was only 80!"

"He had not been well for some time," Roarke explained. "That's why Michiko's older sister, Kayoko, and her husband bought the house that your niece Anna-Kristina had lived in with Mateo, and moved back to the island. She was helping Mrs. Tokita care for him. Unfortunately, over the past few weeks he began to decline, and I am given to understand that this morning his wife awoke and realized he must have died in his sleep."

Leslie smiled faintly. "Well, if you have to go, that's the way to do it," she said. "I'm sure Michiko and the others are already on their way home."

"Yes," Roarke said, "Mrs. Tokita informed them first, and I have just heard it from Kayoko. She has asked if you would kindly inform your friends; she knows Michiko will need the company when she arrives."

"Sure," Leslie said, "I'll be glad to. Poor Michiko…thanks for letting me know, Father."

"What happened?" Christian asked as she cut the connection.

"Michiko's father died," Leslie said. "Father says it seems to have happened in his sleep. What a shame…he just turned 80 not so long ago. He told me Kayoko just called him to inform him, and asked if he'd get me to tell the other girls."

Christian nodded. "You go ahead and make the calls, my Rose. I'll see if I can contact Errico and find out if he knows any more, and if he'll give me the flight information." They both knew that most of the Arcolosian royal family was likely to come along with the Tokita sisters, since Reiko had married Errico's youngest brother.

By that evening, not only had Michiko and Reiko arrived with their husbands and children, but so had Saburo and his entire family, as well as Hachiro and Lani with all their boys and their fifteen-month-old daughter Olivia. By now some of Masato and Miyoshi's oldest grandchildren had small children of their own, so it was quite a crowd of people who descended on the Tokita home. Christian and Leslie offered their guest suite for Michiko and Errico to stay in and found a fold-out cushion bed for Catalina to sleep on, while Kiichiro and Kayoko Matsuda outfitted their spare room, their living-room couches and all the sleeping bags they could round up in order to hold their three daughters, the husbands of two of them and the two small children of the oldest. Saburo and his wife, four children and one daughter-in-law found lodgings in the Tokita home, along with Reiko, Mattéano and their two young children, Androno and Nicolina. Hachiro's family was so large that they were forced to take up two bungalows, with Hachiro and the four oldest boys in one and Lani, the three youngest boys and Olivia in the other. Myeko, too, was planning to bring Alexander and Noelle to their grandfather's funeral.

Michiko's Catalina, shy at first, soon fell into energetic play with the triplets, including Tobias, which helped keep all the children occupied while the adults sat in the kitchen and caught up over beverages. Michiko periodically brushed a tear away from one eye or the other as she reminisced about her father, but now and then she laughed a little at one or another memory, particularly when she told Christian, Leslie and Errico about the first time she had ever brought Myeko home from school as a first-grader and Myeko had unwittingly wreaked minor havoc in the Tokita house. "She was terrified of my parents forever after that," Michiko admitted with a wan smile. "She finally realized they weren't dictators after the reunion I put together a couple of summers ago…" Her eyes filled abruptly and spilled right over. "I never thought the next reunion would be for such a sad reason."

"Think of it like this—your father had the chance to meet all his descendants and see them together all in one place before he died," Leslie offered gently. "Even Alexander and Noelle. Myeko and Hachiro can actually talk civilly to each other nowadays. So you did a lot of good, Michiko, organizing that reunion and getting everybody to show up."

"She is quite right, _cari mie,"_ Errico assured her. "I have no doubt whatsoever that your father had many warm and happy memories of that gathering to look back upon and smile about. Yes, of course he was taken from you too soon. But he still had a very long and happy life, with his five children and eighteen grandchildren, and even a few great-grandchildren. A man with such a large but close-knit family cannot be anything but blessed, and you can be certain his legacy lives on in all of you."

"Exactly so," Christian said softly. "I'm certain Masato Tokita was a contented man."

Michiko smiled a little again and wrapped one hand around Leslie's while Errico took the other. "Thank you, all of you. It's just so hard right now."

The others nodded; they all understood perfectly what she was going through, since all three had lost both parents. "Anytime you need to talk, just say the word," Leslie said. "I know you're both tired from all that flying, so when you want to get some sleep, just tell us and we'll leave you alone."

Michiko made a face. "I slept a lot on the flights," she admitted. "I figured there was nothing else to do except mourn my father, and I didn't want to do that. I'd rather be with my family than mourn alone, in my thoughts."

"I was there, _cari mie,"_ Errico reminded her, "and so was your dear sister Reiko. You certainly were not alone, if you care to recall."

Michiko closed her eyes for a moment. "Oh, I know that. But I didn't really feel like talking about it just yet, the pain was too fresh. Leslie, didn't Mr. Roarke once say something about how a problem shared is a problem already half solved?"

Leslie nodded. "Yeah, and grief shared makes it less—I've heard him say that too. I wish I'd had enough sense to pay attention to that advice in my first few months here. But we all get through grief in our own way. You just feel free to lean on any of us you need to, okay? We're all here for you. The other girls know about it and we'll probably all get together in the next couple of days."

§ § § - April 20, 2007

But Leslie never expected to get together with her friends in quite the way Michiko ended up suggesting they do so. When she saw her friend again in mid-afternoon of the Friday following Masato's death, she was startled by Michiko's first request. "Leslie, I was wondering if it'd be possible to get together for a reminiscing session at the main house, maybe this evening, with the other girls."

"At the main house?" Leslie repeated. "We could just as easily do it at our house, or one of the other girls' places…"

"I don't mean reminiscing about Father so much," Michiko interrupted, absently massaging her forehead with her fingertips. "About past fantasies you've helped Mr. Roarke grant, back in the days when you used to tell us about them at lunch every Monday at school. That's what I need right now."

"You do?" Leslie asked, so astonished she forgot to hide it.

Michiko actually grinned for a second or two. "Yes, I do. I'm just so sick of crying. I need a few laughs, Leslie. At the very least I need some distractions. Do you think it'd be all right with Mr. Roarke? I mean, I don't want to inconvenience you two if you're busy."

"We won't be really busy till tomorrow morning," Leslie mused. "Most of the preparations are done now. I'll check with Father, but I think we can do it. I'll let you know."

Roarke was slightly surprised when he heard about it, but agreeable. "It's an unorthodox request, but certainly not impossible. Why don't you get in touch with your friends and make the arrangements, and suggest we all meet here about seven this evening."

All of Leslie's friends were able to make it, including Diane Waialoka, the newest member of the gang; Leslie introduced her to Michiko, who admitted she couldn't remember Diane from school, but warmly welcomed her into the circle all the same. Errico and Christian both came as well, and Mariki found extra chairs for those who needed them. When they had all been seated and Mariki had provided an assortment of refreshments, Roarke surveyed the group before smiling and settling back in his chair. "So…I understand that Michiko has asked for this gathering, for a period of reminiscing such as some of you will remember from your school days."

"Oh, that's what this is all about," Maureen said and laughed. "You were that desperate for a few giggles, Michiko?"

Michiko gave her a mock glare and nodded. "Any distraction will do right now." She grinned wistfully. "It's been so long since we were in high school listening to Leslie summarizing the fantasies, I just got an attack of nostalgia."

"Understandable," Lauren agreed.

Diane spoke up: "To tell you the truth, I'm glad you did this, Michiko. I didn't know you guys back then, and this promises to be a lot more fun than sitting at home trying to sew up yet another nit-picky little doll costume for an equally nit-picky customer." They all laughed. "I needed the break, so thank you for inviting me, Leslie."

Leslie smiled at her, then asked, "Where should we start?"

For a moment they looked at one another; then Katsumi said slowly, "My Haruko still has mermaid for friend. I wonder now, how is it you know mermaid at all? Haruko say her friend tells her that Mr. Roarke has known her mother for very long time."

"I have indeed," Roarke agreed. "Nyah and I go much farther back than I care to recall just now." He winked and they laughed again. "Perhaps it will be a little easier if we go back to Leslie's first encounter with Nyah. Not that she really had contact with Nyah herself, but it was the first time she realized there were mermaids at all…"

§ § § - December 1, 1979

"New month, new slate," Tattoo said on the way to the plane dock. Leslie thought November must have been the second-worst month of her life (the worst, of course, having been September of the previous year, when she'd been orphaned). "No sad faces today, right, boss? Right, Leslie?"

Leslie pulled a gremlin grimace at him. "That's not a sad face, is it?"

Tattoo snorted. "That isn't what I meant and you know it, Leslie Hamilton. Come on, let's see a smile. Life goes on, and Mrs. Marsh would have told you to go on too, just like the boss is doing, and Jamie too. We're all gonna miss her, but we can't spend our whole lives just sitting around crying about her being gone."

Roarke, watching from the rover's front seat, chuckled. "Quite a pep talk, Tattoo."

"It's true," Tattoo insisted firmly. "I just think it's time for Leslie to shape up."

"She's doing quite well under the circumstances," Roarke said, glancing at his ward with a smile. "It's been quite difficult for her, you must realize that, Tattoo. It's been barely a month, and I myself still have my moments. However…" He favored them with a mysterious smile that Leslie had learned to understand could mean anything at all. "I suspect we will be well and truly distracted this weekend."

Roarke called for smiles at the plane dock, signaled at the band to begin playing, and turned his attention to the plane dock. Tattoo and Leslie followed suit and found themselves watching a man and woman stepping out of the seaplane's hatch. "Who are they, boss?" asked Tattoo, starting off the weekend's introductions as he so often did.

"Professor Harold DeHaven and his wife, Amanda," Roarke replied. Having heard the man's profession, Leslie was a little less surprised by his attire—jacket, shirt and bow tie, though the jacket in its blue-and-white-plaid pattern seemed rather loud for a professor. Mrs. DeHaven was clad in a pretty dress with broad green and white stripes and a matching white short-sleeved jacket, and looked very stylish. "Once very much in love, they have grown apart, and now remain together out of habit."

"What's their fantasy?" Tattoo prompted.

"Despite his youth, the professor is a highly respected, though totally unknown, marine biologist. The professor wants to make a scientific breakthrough that will earn him the respect and recognition he feels he deserves."

"He wants to find a new kind of fish, or something?" Tattoo asked.

"Or something, yes," Roarke murmured, glancing sidelong at his assistant.

"Something like what?" Leslie wanted to know, but Roarke only gave her a faint smile and shifted his attention back to the landing ramp. This time a pretty young woman with light-brown hair, wearing a denim-colored dress and an anticipatory smile, climbed out and started down the dock, and Leslie decided to ask a question that stood a better chance of getting an answer. "Who's she?"

"That is Miss Julie Brett," Roarke said.

"And what's her fantasy?" Tattoo prompted, as ever.

"She has come here to have one date." This statement made Tattoo peer at Roarke in perplexity, and Leslie looked curiously at him. Roarke clarified, "She wants to spend one evening with a man she met four years ago, then lost track of. His name is Michael Duval; she calls him the perfect man."

"He must have made quite an impression on her," remarked Tattoo.

Roarke nodded. "When you consider she met him only once…" He frowned. "I am afraid she has romanticized the incident far out of reasonable proportion."

Tattoo seemed to sense there was much more to the story than they were getting. "But, if she sees him again, will that make matters worse?"

"It will, in fact, be dangerous," Roarke said, eyeing Julie Brett with a worried frown. "So dangerous that even I cannot guarantee the outcome." Letting that hang there, he accepted his champagne flute and raised it in the weekly toast. As always, Leslie watched their new guests' reactions: this time they were all identical, with quick smiles, before they all imbibed deeply from their various exotic tropical drinks. She wasn't sure that boded very well for their respective fantasies; most guests were much more excited and eager than this. "Do you think they're really looking forward to the weekend after all?" she couldn't resist asking Roarke.

Roarke smiled at her. "Sometimes fatigue from traveling can dull one's initial reaction to a place," he said. "Don't worry, Leslie, they're much more eager than they appear." He cast a glance at Julie Brett in particular. "Maybe too much."


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § - December 1, 1979

About an hour later, Leslie found out how right her guardian was when they found Harold and Amanda DeHaven already on the beach. A tote bag sat beside Harold's feet, while Amanda gazed out to sea. Roarke called out, "Ah, Professor DeHaven, Mrs. DeHaven…please." He beckoned at them when they turned at the sound of his voice, and Harold picked up the tote and accompanied his wife toward them. When they got close enough, he advised, "I wouldn't stand too close to the sea in this area. The tides are powerful and unpredictable."

"Oh, well, I'm not afraid of the ocean," Harold remarked genially. "You might even say it's my textbook."

"And you are eager to read the next chapter, are you not?" Roarke noted, smiling. DeHaven, grinning broadly back, nodded. "Good. There is a hidden cove," Roarke continued, turning to gesture to their left where an outcropping of jagged black volcanic rock jutted into the water and split the beach in half, "near those rocks over there, do you see? I am told that exotic specimens of marine life are often trapped in its tidepools. So it may prove an interesting starting point to your quest."

"Oh, thank you, I hope it is." DeHaven turned to his wife, whose expression was less than enthusiastic. "Um…I'll be back for dinner." He dropped a small kiss just in front of her ear and started toward the rocks Roarke had pointed out.

"Uh, professor, one word of caution," Roarke put in, stopping the man. "The sea can be a source of life…or a producer of death." He paused to take in the DeHavens' stares, then warned gently, "Your fantasy may contain more than you bargained for."

DeHaven absorbed that for a moment, then said cheerily, "I'll take my chances." He grinned again, then struck out for the rocks once more.

"Good luck," Amanda DeHaven called after him, and he glanced back long enough to smile and nod, without breaking stride. Still gazing after him, she asked, "Mr. Roarke, is he in any real danger?"

"Perhaps," Roarke allowed. When he'd caught her attention with this, he stepped forward once or twice. "Why don't you go along, Mrs. DeHaven? When two share an experience or burden, its weight can be reduced by much more than half."

"I'm afraid it's not so simple," she said distantly, staring after the man retreating down the beach. "You see, he goes his way…" She turned back to Roarke. "…and I go mine."

"Mrs. DeHaven, on Fantasy Island, more than anyplace else on earth, it is extremely unwise to play it safe," Roarke told her.

Leslie eyed him in surprise, finding this statement somewhat stranger than most she'd heard from him. Mrs. DeHaven's expression became guarded. "Mr. Roarke, what are you trying to tell me?"

"If you still have any love for your husband," he said, "you two may have to take some unusual chances in the near future." She stared blankly at him, and he smiled. "Good day, Mrs. DeHaven. Leslie?" He beckoned to his ward, who trotted alongside him back toward the Ring Road where the rover waited.

"That was a really weird remark," she ventured.

"Was it?" Roarke inquired and smiled at her, amusement twinkling in his dark eyes. "Would it be any less strange to you if I told you that Mrs. DeHaven is going to find herself more involved in her husband's fantasy than she thinks?"

"Not really," she said candidly, and he laughed.

"That's all right, you'll see. We'd better not be late for our appointment."

They pulled up in front of Julie Brett's bungalow and Roarke knocked on the door; there was an instant response inviting them to come in, and Roarke let Leslie in first before entering himself. Julie Brett was already emerging from the bedroom. "Good afternoon, Miss Brett," Roarke said.

"Hi, Mr. Roarke," their guest replied, just as a native woman came in behind them and draped a length of gold satin over a chair. Julie Brett gasped. "Oh…is that for me?"

"Yes," Roarke assured her. "It arrived from Paris just this morning."

She picked up the garment and saw the tag inside the collar, then gaped at Roarke in astonishment. "An Yves DuPrix original?" Leslie recognized the designer's name; he was one of the hottest fads going right now among the jet set. Roarke nodded, and Julie crossed the room to the mirror, holding the gown up against her. "Oh, it's beautiful! I don't know how to thank you!"

"That isn't necessary," Roarke said dismissively, his demeanor sobering, "but I do wonder…how much do you know about Michael Duval?"

The woman looked almost transported. "He is the most wonderful, charming man I've ever met."

Roarke drew in a breath. "Are you aware that he is not a resident of Fantasy Island? In fact, he lives on a nearby island, and, uh…I have no authority there."

"A man who lives on a tropical island…how chic," Julie said with a grin. "He's sounding better all the time."

"Miss Brett," Roarke said finally, "Michael Duval does not live here on Fantasy Island because I won't allow it."

"What?" she blurted.

"That's right. I've permitted him on my island for today only." Roarke fielded her disbelieving stare and said gravely, "I believe—without proof, I admit—that Michael Duval is a dangerous man. And I am not sure I should allow you to go through with this fantasy."

Julie gaped. "Mr. Roarke…I had dreamed about Michael Duval for four years—I mean, the very thought of just seeing him again one day has kept me going." She turned back to him and smiled. "I do think I know what he's like."

Roarke approached her while Leslie hovered near the door, looking on, wondering whether she'd learn any more about this Michael Duval. "Miss Brett, at the risk of sounding repetitious, I must caution you not to leave Fantasy Island. At 1 AM, I shall have a car pick you up at his suite and return you here."

Her expression grew stubborn and annoyed. "Mr. Roarke," she said crisply, "I do not want to hear anything bad about Michael Duval, and I do not need your interference, so I insist that you give me my fantasy."

Roarke eyed her. "Well, in that case, if that is your wish—"

"It is," Julie announced flatly.

He nodded, worry gleaming from his eyes. "I can only hope you have a lovely evening, Ms. Brett." He gathered himself; his voice was still cool, but he was ever the gracious host. "Now I suggest you open the door." At that, Leslie ducked fully inside the room and edged closer to Roarke; she wasn't sure why she suddenly felt nervous, but her guardian's dire warnings and deep concern were apparently contagious.

Julie studied Roarke for a moment, then went to the door and pulled it open. On the small front porch stood a handsome dark man with a welcoming smile. "Hello, Julie."

"Michael!" she gasped. Leslie frowned up at Roarke, who glanced at her and then took a slightly closer look before briefly quirking the tiniest of smiles. He clearly knew she'd have something to say later. He then started for the door with Leslie at his side, catching Duval's attention.

"Mr. Roarke," the man said, his smile fading only slightly.

"Mr. Duval," responded Roarke coldly and turned back to Julie. "Will you excuse us, please. Come, Leslie." He went so far as to slip an arm around the girl's shoulders and all but tow her out the door alongside him.

Leslie, nearly running to keep up with Roarke's stride, heard the bungalow door close behind them and for some reason felt a surge of fear. "Mr. Roarke," she burst out, desperate to get him to stop.

He paused beside the rover only long enough to look at her with some urgency. "Get inside, Leslie," he prompted.

"I just have a question," she insisted. "Why are all the bad guys named Michael?"

Roarke stared at her for a second, then unexpectedly released a laugh of genuine amusement. "Forgive me, Leslie. When we're back at the main house, I'll try to answer any questions you have. Our day will be free from now on, so if you like, after lunch you can meet your friends."

Tattoo met them for the noon meal, and laughed when Roarke told him what Leslie's question had been. "I can't blame her for asking that. What I'd like to know is what makes Michael Duval a bad guy in the first place."

"Ah, yes." Roarke nodded at Mana'olana, who had just placed a tureen on the table and was retreating. "Thank you. I can prove nothing, you understand, but I have very good reason to believe that Michael Duval is…" He glanced at Leslie, then sighed very quietly and said in a low voice, "…operating a house of ill repute."

"Ill repute?" Leslie repeated blankly. "What's that mean?"

Tattoo made a face and suggested ironically, "Say, boss, you might want to be a little less decorous with the descriptions."

Roarke gave him a dirty look that merely made him grin, and looked at Leslie with an air of gentle resignation about him. "I apologize, Leslie, it's an old-fashioned term. In this case, a house of ill repute refers to a brothel. I believe Mr. Duval owns such a place."

"How do you know?" Leslie asked.

Roarke busied himself filling his soup bowl from the tureen while he spoke. "A couple of years ago or so, another young lady with much the same fantasy as Miss Brett's came to the island, asking me to locate Michael Duval and set up a date with him. Her name was Annie Wilcox…a very lovely and articulate young lady. One of my employees happened to be passing by the suite where Mr. Duval and Miss Wilcox were having dinner; the door was open and he heard the young lady say something like, 'What are you doing to me?' He told me later she sounded slurred, as if she were intoxicated. It was then that she stumbled out the door, saw my employee there and begged him to help her, so he took her back to her own bungalow and advised her to lock herself inside."

"But that sounds like she got away from him," Leslie said.

Roarke smiled sadly. "Unfortunately, no. She barely made it to the bungalow before collapsing inside. My employee could not awaken her, so he carried her to the bed and then took care to lock her in. It was to no avail; he failed to notice that one of the windows had been left open just enough to allow someone to break in and take the lady before she had awakened. The following evening, I saw Mr. Duval and Miss Wilcox in the pond restaurant with an older man, a very wealthy business tycoon of some note. They were boarding a yacht at the Enclave marina, and I could see that Miss Wilcox was struggling in Mr. Duval's grasp. The yacht began to cast off the moment they were fully aboard, and there was nothing I could do. I was able to ascertain that Mr. Duval has an estate on a small island about ten miles southwest of here, but that island is owned by a foreign government and I therefore have no jurisdiction there."

Leslie made a face. "That's really disgusting. And you're still gonna let Julie Brett have her date with that creep?"

"She insisted," Roarke said. Then he met her incredulous gaze and smiled at her. "It's my hope, in spite of my very strong misgivings, that perhaps Miss Brett—once she discovers his true nature—will be the one to expose Michael Duval for what he really is."

"But how?" Leslie and Tattoo asked together.

"If she can do it before he has a chance to take her off the island, then it will make things much easier for me," Roarke said and frowned a little. "I'm afraid, however, that it will take something much more drastic to make Miss Brett see Duval's true nature."

Leslie nodded. "Yeah, I see what you mean. She was so crazy about him, she's totally blind to any faults he has." She peered at her guardian. "There was something about that guy that kind of gave me the creeps when I first saw him. I mean, he was polite enough when he spoke to you, but…his smile had changed. There was a weird sort of…of _sneer_ to it, I thought."

Roarke studied her with interest and remarked, "Well observed, Leslie. Let's only hope that Miss Brett sees something similar before it's too late."

The rest of the day was startlingly uneventful; Leslie, unused to a lack of interruptions from their guests, actually got bored enough to call a couple of her friends and ask if they were busy. As a result she ended up spending some time on the beach with Michiko and Myeko, who naturally asked about the fantasies. She couldn't tell them much, but she did expound a bit on what she'd learned about Michael Duval. "He sounds like a first-class scum-sucking cockroach," was Myeko's opinion.

Michiko was grinning. "You just hate the guy because he has the same name as your father, I bet."

Leslie grinned sheepishly back. "Well, maybe. I actually asked Mr. Roarke why all the bad guys are named Michael, and you should've heard him laugh. I mean, as soon as I realized what the guy was like, it reminded me of my stupid father, and the question just sort of fell out of me."

"Sheer coincidence, that's all," Myeko said with a shrug. "What'd he look like?"

"Really good-looking," Leslie admitted, making a face. "You know the old cliché, tall, dark and handsome. He had one of those snowy-white smiles that you know he wasn't born with—the kind you pay for at the dentist's office. He was just so suave and charming and great-looking, and boom, she just fell for it. Both then and now."

Myeko nodded. "In my experience, all good-looking guys know they're good-looking, so they act like total jerks. They know being good-looking will get them out of any trouble on earth. All they have to do is flash that fake-white smile you mentioned and the women just melt into puddles of goop, and they're off the hook. They think they can get away with anything, and they're spoiled and vain. In my experience."

"What experience?" Michiko shot out, and all three girls burst out laughing. "Let's get off that subject. What do you think that professor might find on this island that'll get him noticed by the academic community, I wonder?"

Myeko rolled her eyes. "It could be anything. I think I'll vote for a sea dragon."

"I bet it'll be a kappa," Michiko said playfully, and then had to explain what a kappa was when she saw Leslie's blank look. "They're trouble, you don't want anything to do with them, according to legend. What do _you_ think he'll find?"

"For all I know, it'll be Poseidon," Leslie said, and they laughed again. "I guess you just never know. All I know is, it'll be something that isn't supposed to really exist."

§ § § - December 2, 1979

At breakfast Roarke was looking troubled, and when Leslie asked why, he gave a slight start as if coming out of deep thought. "My apologies. I am afraid it's Miss Brett. I sent a driver to pick her up at the appointed time last night, but he came back and informed me that when he got to Mr. Duval's suite and knocked, there was no reply. He tells me he then tried the door and discovered that it was unlocked, and the place was deserted. Miss Brett's purse lay on the sofa, and the dinner dishes were still on the table."

"Then he did take her off the island," Leslie guessed, horrified. "I mean, what else could've happened? It was the middle of the night, so he could've easily got away with her without anyone seeing him."

Roarke nodded. "I think you're right. Later today I will call the authorities on that island and explain my suspicions, and ask if they can possibly keep an eye on Duval's estate. They dismissed me previously when Miss Wilcox was abducted, and then again six months later when another young lady named Frances McCracken disappeared from here while in Duval's company; but the third time may be the charm. For now, finish your breakfast, and we'll make some rounds afterward."

About forty-five minutes later, with Tattoo handling business at the hotel, the restaurants and various other business amenities, Roarke and Leslie detoured down to the beach from their runs through Amberville and the marina. "The air sure smells good here," Leslie observed, stretching her arms high over her head and taking as deep a breath of the clean sea air as she could drag into her lungs. "Doesn't it, Mr. Roarke?"

"Indeed," Roarke said and smiled. "Somehow it seems to be fresher in the morning…" His voice trailed off as he spied two small objects bobbing in the water some distance out from the sand. Leslie finished her stretch and noticed him staring, then followed his gaze and caught sight of the objects as well. They regularly popped up from the water's surface and then sank down again, in turns; smaller objects kicked rhythmically up some little distance behind the larger ones.

"That's two people out there, isn't it?" Leslie asked.

"Yes," her guardian said, shading his eyes with one hand. Leslie caught his movement, then looked again as well, squinting in an attempt to figure out what he thought he saw and wishing she had a pair of binoculars to aid her vision. But one of the smaller objects in the water didn't look quite right, somehow…

Roarke chuckled beside her. "This way, Leslie," he said and started along the sand in the general direction of the path that would eventually lead them back home. Leslie would have preferred to stay and find out who—or maybe what—was in the water, but she gave in and came along anyway.

They hadn't gone far when a voice called out, "Mr. Roarke?" Roarke and Leslie both stopped, and Amanda DeHaven emerged from the nearby jungle, wreathed in smiles. "Oh, good morning, Mr. Roarke. Hello, Leslie."

"Good morning," Roarke and Leslie chorused.

"I was wondering, have you seen my husband?" Mrs. DeHaven inquired. "When I woke up this morning, he'd already left."

"Yes, I just saw him," Roarke replied warmly. "I believe he went for a swim." So saying, he turned and indicated the two figures still clearly visible in the shallows.

"Oh, thank you very much," said Mrs. DeHaven brightly and started toward the waterline; Roarke and Leslie paused to look on, and again Leslie peered out into the water. Mrs. DeHaven was in her line of sight, and just as Leslie realized what she was really seeing, the woman faltered after only a few steps and then stopped entirely, apparently having discerned it as well. Leslie's mouth fell open just a little: there was no mistaking it, that was definitely a fish tail flapping in and out of the water behind one of the bobbing heads.

"It can't be," she whispered, so softly she barely heard herself, but Roarke heard her all the same and cast her an amused look.

"Mr. Roarke?…" Mrs. DeHaven called back, her voice uncertain this time.

"Yes?" he responded.

For a moment Mrs. DeHaven was silent; Leslie could just see her chin working up and down, as if she were trying to form some jaw-breaking linguistic construction. Roarke moved up to stand behind her, and automatically Leslie drifted alongside him, her gaze sliding back to the water as if magnetically attracted. Finally Mrs. DeHaven said with some shock, "He's out there with a m…_mermaid!"_

"Oh, come now, Mrs. DeHaven…mermaids aren't real," Roarke said, audibly amused. Leslie stared at him in disbelief. There was one right there before their eyes; couldn't he _see_ her, for crying out loud? "How could you have seen your husband with something that doesn't exist?"

At this Mrs. DeHaven turned to stare at him too; it was plain that she didn't honestly believe what he said any more than Leslie did, and that neither hers nor Leslie's eyes were playing tricks on them. Roarke smiled reassuringly, and Mrs. DeHaven turned back to take one more look. Professor DeHaven and his companion were much closer to shore now, though neither of them seemed to notice the three onlookers standing there watching them; and at this distance there was just no way to take the female swimmer for anything but the mermaid she had to be, not with that tail so plainly sticking out of the water. At last Amanda DeHaven shook her head once, let out a plaintive noise that sounded like the precursor to tears, and fled the beach without another word.

Leslie, now certain of what she was seeing, turned to her guardian. "I can't believe you said that," she exclaimed. "You can see it too, I know you can. That's a mermaid, Mr. Roarke, you know it is. It can't be anything else. Look at that tail, and look at the size of it! It's a mermaid!"

"It's trouble," Roarke responded tersely. "Come, Leslie, we'd better go."


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § - December 2, 1979

As it turned out, Mrs. DeHaven wouldn't leave it alone either. She appeared at the main house not long after lunch, looking distraught. Her eyes were red-rimmed and Leslie knew she had been crying. "I really need to talk to you, Mr. Roarke," she said.

"Of course, Mrs. DeHaven—please sit down," Roarke invited, and she did so, sinking into a club chair with an air of bewildered defeat about her.

"Is there something wrong?" Tattoo asked.

"I—I don't know for sure," Mrs. DeHaven began uncertainly, her eyes skating back and forth between him, Roarke and Leslie. Something about Leslie's expression must have caught her notice, for she zeroed in on the girl and all but attacked. "You saw it too, Leslie, didn't you? I know you did. I got a look at you and you were just as flabbergasted as I was. Don't tell me you didn't see it."

"Didn't see what?" Roarke inquired.

"A mermaid, Mr. Roarke," Mrs. DeHaven said, the residual astonished disbelief from that morning still evident in her voice. "A mermaid, swimming out to sea."

"Well, I cannot debate the reality, or unreality, of mermaids, Mrs. DeHaven. To unhappy people, a dream can seem more solid than the most concrete object."

She managed to look offended through her perplexity and tears. "Unhappy people?" she demanded tightly.

"Yes. You and your husband have not been deriving the happiness you desire from your marriage—forgive me for saying it, but it's quite obvious, Mrs. DeHaven. In such instances, who can say what unlikely creature may arrive to agitate the situation."

"But Harold's the one who wanted a fantasy," Mrs. DeHaven pointed out, rising to give Roarke a sharp glare. "All he wanted was to make a scientific discovery. And you—" She had crossed the room and now whipped around to accuse him directly. "You've got him involved in some shoddy affair with a mermaid!" Roarke peered interestedly at her, then at Tattoo, who stared back with a startled frown on his face, and then at Leslie, who bit her lip, embarrassed on her guardian's behalf. Amanda DeHaven watched them look at one another, read the looks on Roarke's and Tattoo's faces, and backtracked lamely. "Or something."

She sat down in the nearest chair, and Roarke went over to stand beside her. "Do I?" he inquired, while Tattoo stared after him in disbelief. "You and your husband have not been able to share his disappointment or your love, and now you seem to be sharing some…mutual hallucination. Well, I would say that was somewhat of an improvement." Leslie's mouth dropped open again at his mild sarcasm; Tattoo blinked.

"Please, Mr. Roarke, don't play games with me," Mrs. DeHaven snapped low. He just looked at her, and she ducked her head, the tears on her cheeks gleaming in the room's light. "Mr. Roarke," she finally begged, "you've got to help me understand what's happening, because I have this terrible feeling that time's running out."

Roarke considered her words for a moment, then slowly sat down. "Mrs. DeHaven, perhaps you have been jealous of your husband's work. When it disappointed him, he felt he couldn't discuss it with you." Leslie thought his words must be hitting their mark, for new tears painted tracks down Mrs. DeHaven's cheeks and she hung her head again. "And so he redoubled his efforts to succeed. You drifted farther and farther apart—loving, but not touching."

Mrs. DeHaven seemed beaten in the face of Roarke's obvious insight. "Oh, it's true," she moaned. "But Mr. Roarke, I don't want to lose him."

He nodded once, slightly. "Then if—I say _if_—there is a mermaid, and if she has chosen the professor as a consort, you must win him back before she can take him out to sea. The legends tell us no man can live in the ocean depths."

Mrs. DeHaven looked stunned. "B-but what if I can't get him back?" she asked in a small voice, as though afraid voicing the thought would make it come true.

"Unless you can regain the professor's love, he will die, Mrs. DeHaven," Roarke said, softly but bluntly. "Whether this is really a mermaid or not, he will die."

Horror filled her face. "Then I've got to stop him," she breathed, her voice shaking a little, and arose as if to leave. "Oh, Mr. Roarke…" Determination supplanted the horror and she concluded, "Mr. Roarke, I'll fight for him any way I have to." With that she whirled and left the house, clearly on a mission. Roarke watched her go, then half-smiled, concerned, but optimistic at the same time.

"Wait a minute. She's gonna go out there and fight a mermaid?" demanded Tattoo, his face so screwed up with disbelief and skepticism that Roarke and Leslie both grinned.

"How _do_ you fight a mermaid, anyway?" Leslie wondered. "If they fight in the water, the mermaid has all the advantages, you know, and Mrs. DeHaven would just drown."

Tattoo whipped around and pointed one stubby finger at her in accusation. "Aha, I knew it, I knew it! You did see a mermaid, didn't you, Leslie Hamilton! Don't you try to get away with it, you just gave yourself away." Caught, Leslie could only shrug, and he turned on Roarke. "Don't kid around, boss, tell me the truth—is there a mermaid or not?"

Roarke chuckled and returned to the desk. "Very well, Tattoo, but you and Leslie must keep this to yourselves. And Leslie, I'm afraid this means that when you talk to your friends on Monday, you'll have to make it clear that you, and I as well, believe that the mermaid was only an illusion, or whatever explanation you think of—certainly not real."

"Except she _is_ real," Leslie insisted, "and you can't tell me any differently, because I saw her, and so did you. I was standing right there beside you, and _I saw a mermaid."_

"Yes, indeed you did," Roarke agreed quietly.

"Okay, so the mermaid's for real," Tattoo said, a bit impatiently. "What's she doing around here, trying to lure Professor DeHaven to his death?"

"I've known this mermaid for a very long time," Roarke admitted with a smile. "Her name is Nyah, and she so happens to be one of many children of Neptune, or Poseidon, if you prefer the Greek appellation. She is a mermaid princess, and from time to time she drifts in this direction and plays a little havoc with the local fishermen. Fortunately, the native islanders have long since grown wise to her ways, and they know how to avoid her, which undoubtedly has caused her a great deal of frustration over the years. Now that she has the professor in her clutches, she will be more difficult to defeat, and Mrs. DeHaven will be forced to use every trick and skill she knows to beat her."

Tattoo and Leslie looked at each other. "Well, then, good luck to her," Leslie said.

"She'll need it," Tattoo agreed direly.

"I'm afraid she will," Roarke concurred. "I can try to help her, but if I fail, then Mrs. DeHaven will have only her own resources to aid her."

To that end, he left Tattoo and Leslie in charge and made his way to a part of the island where the beach lay below low cliffs, and sent out a silent call, then waited. He had been scanning the ocean for only a few minutes when a reddish-blonde head, wearing a crown of white shells that gleamed in the sun, broke the water's surface and Nyah, Princess of the Seven Seas, smiled up at him. "You summoned me?" she inquired coyly.

"I did," Roarke said, folding his arms over his abdomen.

"What would you have?" Nyah asked.

"It's what _you_ would have—Professor DeHaven."

Nyah eyed him smugly and announced, "I most certainly will have him."

"You are wrong, Nyah," Roarke replied simply.

"Not this time, Roarke," she returned, with all the confidence of one who knows she has all the cards on her side.

"We have battled before," Roarke noted. "Have I ever lost?"

Nyah shrugged. "There's always the first time. Leave him to me." Roarke smiled dismissively and turned away to start back toward home, but then Nyah's voice, gently taunting, drifted up to him. "Come to me, Roarke…"

He paused, listening for just a moment to the soft feminine chorus that always seemed to emanate from thin air whenever Nyah was around, then turned to look at the mermaid, who smirked up at him. "I will love you like no other man has ever been loved. Together we shall swim the Seven Seas, and live in love…for eternity." She gazed up at him with a seductive smile, but he merely stared reprovingly back at her, and the smile dissolved into a petulant glare. "I love him, Roarke. I will have him. I _will."_

"Go home, Nyah," Roarke advised.

Nyah regarded him with annoyance, then sniffed and dove back into the water, flicking her tail among the seaweed before vanishing into the depths. Roarke watched just long enough to be sure she was gone, then began to retrace his steps.

When he got back to the main house, both Tattoo and Leslie greeted him with excitement. "You gotta hurry," Tattoo said, his words tumbling over each other as he spoke, making his French accent even more impenetrable. "We just heard, you have to get going…"

"Slow down, Tattoo," Roarke said, but Tattoo just shook his head, and he turned to Leslie. "What is it?"

"The authorities on that other island called while you were gone," she said earnestly. "They wanted to know if you could come over to their island before today's over. I guess somebody in Duval's employ was shopping in a town over there and bought a whole bunch of slinky, low-cut gowns. It was a woman, they said, an older woman who wasn't skinny enough to fit into dresses like that. The shopkeeper made some casual conversation with her and this woman said she had a new employee who needed a nice wardrobe for her job. She signed Michael Duval's name on the credit slip. They said the shopkeeper told them this woman made some kind of remark about how maybe this girl would finally be grateful for everything Duval was doing for her, and then she left. The shopkeeper recognized Duval's name and got upset. She called the authorities and told them they had to get Duval right away because her twin sisters had disappeared five years ago after dates with him—one on one night, and the other the night right after that."

Roarke's brows headed for his hairline. "I see…so now they believe me, hm?"

"I'd say they do," Tattoo said stridently. Leslie's breathless speech had given him some time to calm down. "You've got to get over there, boss. They're willing to work with you so they can put an end to Duval's operations once and for all."

"Very well, then, let's go," Roarke said. He led Tattoo and Leslie out of the house and into a rover, and once he got onto the Ring Road, he pushed the car to as high a speed as he dared drive it. When they reached the docking authority on the other side of the island, down past the pineapple plantation, he parked near the dock where the Coral Island car ferry came in, and hurried into the nearby office where Myeko's father, Tadashi Sensei, was in charge of the small staff at the ferry and dock authority here.

"Mr. Roarke, what can I do for you?" Sensei inquired, smiling and nodding.

"Hello, Mr. Sensei, how are you? If at all possible, I need to divert the next car ferry from its normal journey to Coral Island. There is an urgent situation on one of the islands about ten miles southwest of here, and its local government has allowed me to help them handle it, provided I can get there with all due haste."

"That's not a problem at all, Mr. Roarke. I'll radio the captain. The next ferry's due in within five minutes, you should be able to see it now." Roarke nodded and paused long enough to watch Sensei send his message; then he retreated to the car and watched the ferry dock, discharging a few Fantasy Island residents who had gone shopping at the Air Force base. Other than himself, Leslie and Tattoo, no one else was waiting to board, so in just a few minutes Roarke had driven the rover on board and they were under full steam to the foreign island where Duval had set up shop.

At the dock there, they were met by local constables in a small white jeep. The men greeted Roarke deferentially and gestured that he should follow them. "We had a call from a fellow not a minute ago, just as your ferry was docking, that his delivery van had been stolen at Duval's estate," one of the constables informed him. "It's likely that Duval's giving chase. Follow us about half a mile up the road—there's a bend there and we can trap Duval and his henchmen."

"Lead the way," Roarke said with a nod, and the constable swung into the jeep just as his partner threw it into gear. They sailed at what seemed like breakneck speed along a rut-filled, narrow dirt lane; sure enough, they soon reached a sharp hairpin curve where the jeep pulled aside and Roarke drove past it so he could park the rover. He, Tattoo and Leslie got out, and Roarke motioned them to stand near the jeep and out of the way.

"This is exciting, isn't it?" Leslie whispered to Tattoo. "I've got butterflies!"

Tattoo grinned at her. "As long as it has a happy ending, that's all."

They had less than a minute to wait: an aging beige panel truck popped into view from behind foliage and over a small rise, and Roarke stepped forward enough to wave his right arm at them, indicating they should park near the jeep. The van swerved around the hairpin curve and screeched to a stop, closely followed by a late-model red Mercedes. It slid to a dusty halt, and the constables trotted forward to apprehend Duval and a dark, heavyset man dressed in black and wearing at least half a dozen gold chains around his neck.

"Wait a minute, Roarke," Duval shouted when he recognized the man in white. "You have no authority on this island." He strode around the front of his car to confront Roarke, while eight pretty young women tumbled out of the delivery van and paused in a group near the jeep and the rover, safely behind Roarke and the constables.

Roarke eyed Duval with great satisfaction. "I take any authority I choose where the safety of my guests is concerned." He looked over at Julie Brett and her seven companions, who were watching anxiously. "I suspected his activities, but now, with you and these other ladies to testify against him…" He turned back to Duval. "I'll see that you never get out of prison. These officers were assigned to me by the governor-general of this island—and they have total authority." His gaze hardened. "White slavery and prostitution are not allowed on any island. Gentlemen?"

Everyone watched as the constables led a strangely subdued Michael Duval and his angry chain-bedecked lackey away to the waiting police jeeps; then Julie Brett approached Roarke, who smiled. "Well, Miss Brett…" He surveyed the women. "You are all quite safe now." Leslie glanced shyly at each of the women; they were all dressed in luxurious gowns, save for two—a petite girl with lank brown hair and a face that showed evidence of abuse, wearing red satin pajamas with holes torn in them; and a blonde in a dusty-pink dress who had a protective arm around the first girl's shoulders.

Julie Brett smiled wryly at Roarke and admitted with good grace, "And I can't say you didn't warn me. But you must have known what was going on there all along."

"I suspected it," Roarke said, "but I needed proof. However, your involvement caused me to short-circuit the legal niceties." Julie beamed at that, and he smiled back and took in the entire group. "Well, ladies…shall we go to my island, and more pleasant fantasies?"

This met with glances, nods, and sudden relieved laughter from all of them, even the battered girl in red. Somehow they all piled into the rover together, and Roarke waited for the jeep to clear the road, followed by the red Mercedes with a policeman behind the wheel, before making a three-point turn and returning to the ferry dock.

"Gosh," Leslie ventured at last, amazed at the number of women. "That Duval was really running something big, wasn't he? There's so many of you!"

"Because we were all such suckers," observed the blonde in the dusty-pink dress. "But not anymore. Do you belong to Julie's friend there?"

Leslie giggled. "Yeah, I guess you could say that. Mr. Roarke's my guardian, and we live on Fantasy Island."

The battered girl spoke up. "Julie…I didn't listen either. You weren't the only one. I'm Annie Wilcox, and I had the same fantasy you did. Met the same result too."

"We probably all did," remarked one of the pretty blonde identical twins who had crowded into the middle seat with two other women. "So I guess you're Mr. Roarke."

"Yes, indeed," Roarke said, catching her eye in the rearview mirror and taking in the fact that she was a twin. "Your sister owns a shop in a nearby town on this island, and it seems she is the one who notified the authorities after someone in Duval's employ purchased a large number of evening gowns there."

"That would have been Madame Jeannot," said a statuesque blonde with a low-pitched voice, who introduced herself as Mickey. "She probably went out to get a new wardrobe for Julie."

"I see," said Roarke and addressed the twins again. "If you like, I can take you two to your sister's shop." The twins gratefully agreed, and Roarke detoured into the town and dropped them off at the shop they indicated before finally driving to the local dock and onto the waiting ferry.

"How long do you think it'll be before Duval goes to trial?" someone asked.

"Too long," Julie Brett averred and grimaced. "I can't believe I was so stupid as to be taken in by a pretty face."

"You weren't the only one," said Annie Wilcox's protector. "I'm Fran McCracken, and the same thing happened to me. He comes across as all charming and suave, just as nice and polite and decorous as can be, and then he dumps some sort of sleeping powder into your drink and carries you off to his brothel."

"What a dirty trick," Tattoo said indignantly. "Believe me, you'll be much better off on Fantasy Island. You can stay as long as you need to, till Duval goes on trial, and you'll have all the perks while you're with us. And your charges are on the house."

"That's right," Roarke said smilingly.

Annie smiled back and reached out to tap Julie on the shoulder. "You have such guts, doing what you did. I really admire you for that. I just wish you'd come sooner." They all laughed, and got out of the car to enjoy the ferry ride.

§ § § - December 3, 1979

At the plane dock Monday morning, a subdued and much wiser Julie Brett stepped out of a rover and faced Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie. She would be returning, she had told Roarke, as soon as she could arrange time off to testify against Duval. Roarke smiled at her and offered, "I hope you can visit us again, under very different circumstances, of course."

Julie grinned. "I hope so too. The next time I meet 'Mr. Wonderful', like Michael Duval, I'm going to run an FBI check on him before I consent to lunch."

Leslie laughed, while Roarke beamed and nodded. "Good."

"Okay," Julie said, then tipped forward and kissed Roarke's cheek. "See ya." She bid Tattoo and Leslie goodbye and headed briskly for the plane dock.

Shortly thereafter, the reunited DeHavens alighted, with Amanda beaming. "Oh, Mr. Roarke…thank you for a very, very special weekend."

The professor nodded, shaking Roarke's hand. "And thank you for making my scientific discovery possible." Leslie waited for them to complain about the mermaid, but neither mentioned it at all; in fact, they merely all exchanged farewells and saw the DeHavens off to the plane, returning their waves.

"Boss, they look very happy," Tattoo remarked.

"Yes, they do," Roarke agreed with a smile.

"Professor DeHaven was very lucky to escape from Nyah," Tattoo remarked.

Leslie snorted. "I don't think he had much hand in his escape. The way Mr. DeHaven told it, it sounded like Mrs. DeHaven was ready to break some of Nyah's bones to keep her from hauling him off into the open ocean, and Nyah was ready to drown Mrs. DeHaven. And he was all set to go off to his own death. No, she saved him—he didn't 'escape'."

Roarke chuckled at her. "True. However, Nyah will find someone else soon enough. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if she didn't have her eye on another prospect already." He said this with a meaningful look at Tattoo, though there was a gleam in his eye.

"Oh really?" Tattoo inquired. "You have anybody in mind?"

Roarke gave a small nod and lifted his brows in wordless indication, and Tattoo blinked. "Uh-oh." Leslie giggled, and the Frenchman laughingly protested, "No, no, no, no. Not me. No, come on, boss…I can't even swim."

At that Roarke's poker face broke and he began to laugh along with his assistant and ward. "I appreciate your telling me that, my friend. And as for you, young lady, here's the car to take you to school…and don't forget what I told you about telling your friends…"


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § - April 20, 2007

Diane, Katsumi and Maureen were all laughing by the time Roarke's and Leslie's narrative had ended, but Michiko, Lauren, Camille and Myeko were eyeing her with mostly mock indignation. "That's not fair," Lauren complained. "We all figured out later on that that mermaid was real. What'd you go and tell us she wasn't for?"

"Blame Father, not me," Leslie said, holding up both hands and making Christian and Errico grin at each other. "I was sworn to secrecy, you know that."

"Do you have any more otherworldly fantasies you could tell us about?" Diane asked eagerly. "This is way more fun than even I could've expected."

"We've got plenty," Leslie assured her a little dryly. "Let's see, here's one that really ought to get you going…"

§ § § - December 15, 1979

The bell had just sounded off from the tower, and now Roarke and Leslie were waiting on the veranda for Tattoo. "Are we taking Christmas off?" Leslie asked her guardian curiously. It was much on her mind, with the holiday so close now.

Roarke looked at her in surprise. "Now why should we do that? Christmas is on a Tuesday this year. There will be fantasies next weekend, just as always."

"Oh," said Leslie. "Well, I asked only because most people like to spend Christmas at home, you know. But I suppose some people would rather have a tropical Christmas than a snowy one." She shrugged, not quite able to grasp that idea. Roarke watched her with a faint, knowing smile.

After a moment he said, "Of course, that's completely foreign to you, since you believe that Christmas and snow are inextricably linked, and that a Christmas without it is an absolute travesty."

She settled her stance and lifted her head, directing a very deliberate, very dirty look at him. "Well, I don't think sarcasm is called for," she said, matching his formal tone.

Roarke laughed. "I see you take that particular subject very seriously," he said. "My apologies, then. It may interest you, in any case, to hear that Fantasy Island is an extremely popular place to spend New Year's Eve. We are just west of the international date line, so that we are one of the very first places on earth to greet the first day of each new year. As you implied, Christmas is more of a family holiday; as a vacation destination, we tend to put more emphasis on New Year's. You might invite your friends to the luau we will be having that night." He looked up. "Ah, good morning, Tattoo."

"Good morning, boss, Leslie," Tattoo replied. "We're not late, are we?"

"Not yet," Roarke said and smiled. "But we'd better hurry."

This weekend their first guests were a short, graying, bespectacled man and a woman with short, bouncy chestnut-colored hair; they both looked delighted and anticipatory. "Who are they, boss?" Tattoo asked as usual.

"Professor Duane Clebe and his laboratory assistant, Ms. Martha Meeks, from Sioux Falls, South Dakota," Roarke replied.

"Which one has the fantasy?" Tattoo was used to asking questions like these every weekend, although he had confessed to Leslie that it wearied him because at times it felt to him like pulling teeth, trying to get information out of Roarke.

"Maybe both of them do," Leslie suggested.

"No, only Professor Clebe. His fantasy is to perfect the formula for his own secret invention, one which has caused a great deal of international attention—a substance which the professor calls ZX76409."

"Why does he have to come all the way to Fantasy Island to perfect his formula?" Tattoo persisted.

"For two reasons, Tattoo: one, because he needs a chemical element which can be found only on Fantasy Island," Roarke explained, "and two, because no one else would permit the professor to use their laboratory facilities. It seems he has already blown up a number of them during his six-year quest."

"Oh, wonderful," groaned Leslie. "Explosions and damage control." Roarke eyed her with mock reproach, but by now she had lived with him long enough to know when he was teasing her, and she just rolled her eyes at him. With a smile, he turned his attention back to the landing ramp, where an elderly lady and a boy a few years older than Leslie were already halfway to the clearing. The lady carried a large potted fern and was chatting animatedly, although not directing her words at anyone in particular as far as they could see.

"Boss, who is that lady talking to?" Tattoo wanted to know.

Roarke's amusement increased. "Uh, well, as a matter of fact, I believe she is talking to her plant." At closer look, this did appear to be the case; the boy was grinning, as if indulging the old lady's eccentricity.

"Her plant!" Tattoo parroted, scowling in disbelief.

"Yes." Roarke smiled. "The lady is Mrs. Irma Gideon, a widow from Pacific Grove, California. The young man with her is her grandson, Keith. She is the widow of the late and world-renowned psychic, Mr. Howard Gideon. When Mr. Gideon died twenty-five years ago, he made a promise that he would contact her and tell her what it is like…on the other side. Well, she has tried repeatedly over the years to make that contact, always without success. Now, she has come to Fantasy Island to make one last attempt."

"Boss, what does she have in mind?" Tattoo asked cautiously.

Roarke glanced at him. "Something she has never tried before, Tattoo: since her husband's spirit has not been able to return to her, she wishes to join him."

Leslie had been listening intently all this time; she could relate to something like that herself, to say the least. "If you man what I think you mean…" she mumbled.

Tattoo looked at her, took in her expression and nodded, then said, "The only way she can do that is by dying herself…right, boss?"

Roarke merely favored them with a mysterious smile and turned back to his guests, lifting his glass and welcoming them to the island. The mystery would just have to wait.

‡ ‡ ‡

The activity Leslie had noticed earlier that morning in the clearing adjacent to the main house had resulted in a couple of well-stocked buffet tables and a gathering of something called The Howard Gideon Society, which Leslie had never heard of. There were a few umbrella-shaded tables scattered around, but most people were meandering around the clearing, chatting. Among them were Tattoo and Leslie, the latter having already been introduced to Keith Gideon, a slender, good-looking boy of about seventeen with dark hair and a very friendly smile.

Their chat was interrupted when Roarke called, "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?" The small crowd gathered in a loose circle around Keith's grandmother and Roarke. "Mrs. Gideon has a few words…Mrs. Gideon?" Roarke stepped back a few paces, and Irma Gideon smiled shyly at the people standing around waiting.

She spoke hesitantly. "I'm a little overwhelmed, but I do want to thank all of you who have continued to have faith in the eventual fulfillment of Howard's promise." Leslie, standing beside Keith, noticed that he looked a little pensive as he watched his grandmother, who continued: "And every year we haven't heard from him has made that faith more difficult. Even my own doubts have grown." Murmurs arose at this admission. "Well, it's…it's true. You see…surely Howard would have communicated with us if he could…and, uh, sometimes I think that what he believed in…what he taught…was wrong." The protests were louder this time, but she pressed on anyway. "So I have decided that, if he can't get through to us, there's only one thing left for me to do—and that is to go to him." Keith's face fell; he, Tattoo and Leslie traded worried looks. Mrs. Gideon elucidated: "Go there, and see Howard, and see for myself."

Roarke noticed that she was growing emotional and stepped in. "If you'll all assemble in the lounge in two hours, we will begin," he told the crowd, and escorted Mrs. Gideon to a waiting car. Tattoo, Leslie and Keith wandered back to the buffet table and began filling paper plates with snacks.

"Tell me," Tattoo ventured curiously, "could your grandfather do all that stuff? I mean, read minds and communicate with spirits?"

"Oh, I don't know, Tattoo," grumbled Keith. "To tell you the truth, the whole thing kinda turns me off."

"You mean, you don't believe in ESP and all that?" Tattoo queried.

"Well, I just don't believe that my grandfather's work actually proves anything scientifically," Keith clarified, putting a tiny sandwich on Leslie's plate before she could reach for it, and returning her smile of thanks. "But all his followers believe in that stuff, about a spirit world on the other side." He grinned at them as they left the buffet.

"But there must be something to it, if a nice lady like your grandmother believes in it," Tattoo persisted.

Keith sighed. "Well, I dunno. I mean, she kinda worships my grandfather. All of them do." He gestured with a quick jerk of his head at the others in the clearing. "She gets pushed into some pretty weird mumbo-jumbo sessions."

"I bet," Leslie remarked.

"The whole thing makes me uncomfortable," Keith admitted. "I'm just afraid she's gonna wind up looking foolish again." Tattoo nodded thoughtfully, and Leslie smiled.

"Well, I've seen some funny things happen since I came here," she observed. "Something might actually happen this time…and then again, it might not."

Keith, who knew about her background, asked warily, "You're not thinking of trying to talk to your mother that way, are you?"

She shrugged, a wistful glint in her eyes. "No, I'm not saying that. All I'm saying is that if it can ever possibly happen anywhere, then this is the place."

"She's right," Tattoo said with a loyal smile at his boss' ward. "Look, let's just forget it for right now. You could use a break after your flight, Keith, and Leslie, you need to finish what's on your plate so we can be back at the house on time."

"On time for what?" Keith asked with interest.

Leslie hastily gulped the bite she'd taken so she could answer. "The other fantasy. Go to the pool or something and relax, and we'll see you at the lounge."

"Hope so," Keith said, and they smiled sheepishly at each other before parting.

Tattoo peered slyly at Leslie as they walked toward the main house. "You're doing it again, Leslie," he said. "Are you really so sure you don't have any luck with boys?"

"Oh, brother," groaned Leslie, dropping her empty plate into a nearby garbage bin. "Could we kindly move on to something else?" She strode ahead of Tattoo, who sauntered along in her wake in no real hurry, grinning to himself.

They caught up with their other guests on the veranda and escorted them inside, where Roarke was already waiting. "Ah, Professor Clebe and Ms. Meeks, do come in. Please be seated, won't you?" The professor thanked him and everyone settled down. "Enjoying yourselves, I hope?"

"Oh, yes indeed," Martha Meeks said enthusiastically.

"We _are_ rather anxious to get on with our fantasy," Professor Clebe put in.

Roarke nodded. "And so you shall. I perused your scientific data, professor." He tapped the air with an envelope and regarded Clebe with interest. "Impressive, very impressive indeed!" Clebe and Ms. Meeks beamed at each other. "The world is sorely in need of visionaries the caliber of Edison, Marconi, the Wright brothers…and you, professor." He handed the envelope to Tattoo, who stood beside Clebe's chair.

"I have great hopes for Formula ZX seven-six-four-naught-eight," Clebe began.

Ms. Meeks broke in with, "Naught-nine."

Clebe and Tattoo stared at her in surprise and consternation; Roarke and Leslie exchanged glances. "Naught-nine?" Clebe mumbled, thought about it, then turned sheepishly to Roarke. "The, uh, nine stands for the number of labs I've blown up in this series of tests."

Ms. Meeks giggled faintly, and Roarke smiled at her, then shot a doubtful glance in Clebe's direction. Leslie winced and actually lifted her hands a bit, as if to clap them over her ears in anticipation of explosion number ten.

Tattoo, handing Clebe the envelope, asked, "What does your invention do?"

"Well, it's a simplistic water-like solution that will provide lifetime protection to anything from houses, to airplanes, to battleships, to missiles." Tattoo looked at Roarke, who raised his eyebrows but made no comment. Leslie tilted her head with interest, and Tattoo seemed intrigued. "That's why the military is interested," Clebe added.

"Just put ZX76409 on, and nothing, rust and weather included, can penetrate it!" put in Ms. Meeks eagerly, reminding Leslie of a commercial pitchwoman.

Roarke's gaze sharpened. "An invention like that could revolutionize—"

"Everything!" Tattoo cut him off excitedly. "You could make zillions!"

Roarke arose. "Uh, professor, have you ever paused to consider just how far-reaching the effects of this invention might be?"

"I have indeed, Mr. Roarke. Why, it'll be the greatest boon to mankind ever invented. Imagine it—there'll be no more weatherbeaten old houses, old beaten-up cars…everything would be indestructible, and freshly painted, as new as—"

"A magnificent vision, professor," Roarke said expansively. "I feel proud to play even a small part in the ZX76408 experiment."

"Oh-nine," Leslie reminded him, unable to resist.

Roarke aimed an apologetic smile at her. "Oh yes, thank you, Leslie." Martha Meeks beamed at her, and she shrugged cheerfully.

"Your support means a lot, Mr. Roarke," Clebe said solemnly. "It's very discouraging to work with shortsighted people who can't see beyond a harmless explosion or two."

"Even if the last one did level a gymnasium," added Martha Meeks and let out another nervous giggle. Roarke automatically smiled back, then realized exactly what she had said and did a mildly startled double-take. Tattoo looked very dubious, and Leslie cringed in her chair. None of them joined in Clebe's and Ms. Meeks' forced merriment.

Roarke drew in a breath. "Come, I'll show you to your laboratory facilities. Tattoo?" Tattoo obligingly led the way out, and Roarke started after them, then checked himself mid-stride. "Well, Leslie, aren't you coming?"

She stared plaintively up at him. "Do I have to?"

Roarke gave her a look. "Come along, young lady," he said sternly, and she sighed and got up. Roarke made a point of letting him precede her out the door—_probably so he can keep an eye on me and prevent me from escaping another possible explosion,_ she thought with a wince. She had no idea that Roarke saw it and stifled a smile.

Some little distance out of Amberville, they pulled up to a small vacant building that had once been a storefront. "Here we are," Roarke said. "This way, please." He escorted Ms. Meeks to the door and let everyone else in ahead of him; inside, they found a very nicely equipped chemistry lab.

"Wow," blurted Clebe, and Ms. Meeks contributed a "Mercy!" Clebe went on, "Wow, this is the best lab we've ever had."

"It's so clean!" blurted Martha Meeks, catching Roarke's surprised attention. Leslie wondered where they'd worked before!

"How can we thank you, Mr. Roarke?" Clebe asked.

Tattoo suggested sweetly, "By not blowing it to pieces."

Leslie barely contained a fit of giggles, while Roarke turned sharply to him and said in rebuke, "Tattoo!"

"Oh, that's all right, Mr. Roarke," Clebe said good-naturedly. "Tattoo has a good point. But this time I shall be doubly careful." Something caught his eye and he lit up with wonder. "Look at that distillator!"

"Where?" Martha asked, and Clebe started to point at it. In so doing, he knocked over a beaker about a quarter full of green liquid, which plummeted to the floor and instantly detonated. The screech Leslie loosed could have been heard across half the island; smoke filled the entire room and rolled out the windows, which had been blown out in the explosion. Everyone stood coughing and waving smoke out of their faces; their clothing, torn and singed by the force of the blast, was pretty much ruined.

"Professor, what happened?" Roarke exclaimed.

Clebe gave him a foolish smile and said in a lame attempt at humor, "I, uh…I just changed the name of the invention to ZX seven sixty-four…_ten."_ He and Martha Meeks laughed at their own joke, which met strained smiles from Roarke and Tattoo and a very dirty look from Leslie. Roarke patted her shoulder sympathetically.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § - December 15, 1979

"Well, that dress is a goner," Leslie complained in disgust, having changed her clothes to her only other white sundress. "Drat it, and I bought it with my own money, too!"

"Christmas is coming soon," Roarke reminded her with a smile. "You look just fine, Leslie." They had just arrived at the lounge where they were to meet Irma and Keith Gideon. "Let's be silent, the séance is about to begin."

They stood with Tattoo beside the doorway to the lounge and watched an older man named Zoltan escort Irma Gideon inside, settling her down on a green-velvet chaise longue before moving to the other side of the room. Keith came in a few seconds later and, seeing his hosts standing there, paused in front of them. "Is it too late to turn back?" he asked low.

"I'm afraid so, Keith," Roarke said gently.

"I'm worried for her, Mr. Roarke," Keith said. "I mean, I just can't understand why she wants to go there herself."

"Your grandmother has her reasons, Keith," Roarke assured him. "Please don't worry. It's time to begin." Keith looked a little thwarted, even tossed Leslie a look as if begging her to intercede on his behalf, but then gave up and nodded once, moving to the opposite side of the room and taking a chair. Roarke stepped in among the group of seated people. "Ladies and gentlemen, if you are comfortably settled, I believe all is in readiness."

Zoltan said, "With your permission, Mr. Roarke, may we have the lights dimmed?"

"Certainly," Roarke said and pointed a finger toward the ceiling. The lights lowered, and he turned back to the gathering, watching closely.

Zoltan spoke in a half-soothing, half-ominous tone. "My friends, I feel an immense new power coming to me from this place, from this island…and from this remarkable man, Mr. Roarke." Roarke registered faint surprise; Leslie and Tattoo glanced at him, and Roarke nodded. "But what we are attempting is difficult; there are many who think it impossible." His glance slid to Keith, who looked guiltily away. "Please, my friends, open your minds, clear your energy centers, and concentrate the full power of our psychic forces on Irma, on lifting the very core of her being, lifting it up and out. Irma…the image of Howard Gideon is in your mind…let him call to you."

"Howard," Irma Gideon breathed, her face radiant with hope.

"Let him join in lifting…your mind is clear…" Leslie, feeling herself being put to sleep by Zoltan's hypnotic voice, made herself look around the room, so that for the first time she noticed the large oil portrait of Howard Gideon hanging on the wall where his widow could look directly at it from her supine position. She was still studying it when, in her peripheral vision, she saw something glowing blue and looked around again. An electric-blue aura, shooting sparks, completely surrounded Irma Gideon as Zoltan droned on. "I can feel the window opening to the other side…you are connecting with this energy…" Leslie pulled her gaze from the aural effect with some effort and saw that Keith was staring at it in disbelief; Roarke, for his part, had a detached curiosity about him as he looked on. A scented breeze inexplicably arose within the closed room, playing with the candle flames and stirring people's hair. Tattoo watched with an inscrutable look, while Keith's gaze was drawn to the portrait of his grandfather. Leslie looked that way as well. "I can feel the presence," Zoltan's voice moaned. "The guide is waiting…"

"She can do it," someone said encouragingly, nearly shattering the mood.

"Irma, it's possible. Go to Howard. Join him! _Go_…to _Howard!"_ At this, Irma sat up like a shot and stared at the portrait; Keith and Leslie both gaped open-mouthed when the picture began to take on a distinct animation.

"Irma," a faraway voice exhorted in an echoing moan. "Come back to me!"

Entranced, Irma stared at the portrait; Roarke shifted his attention from her to the painting, narrowing his eyes at it without anyone noticing. The voice, presumably that of the long-dead Howard, grew more urgent. "Irma, come back to me, please!" it begged, mingling with the entreaties of the group surrounding Irma's chaise.

Roarke squeezed his eyes closed, concentrating hard on the portrait, then opened them just a little and homed in on Mrs. Gideon. Her head snapped around to his and their gazes locked as if she had been summoned. Leslie, attention snared by the movement, just faintly heard Roarke's voice, as though from across the duck pond. "You cannot go, Mrs. Gideon," he said firmly.

As if in direct opposition, Zoltan repeated, "Go, Irma, join Howard."

"No, Mrs. Gideon, I forbid it," came Roarke's almost-silent response.

"Come back," Howard Gideon's voice commanded, over and over.

"I…can't," Irma finally stammered, and her husband's followers exchanged startled looks as the animation vanished and the voice faded away. "Something…wrong."

All of a sudden the portrait slid off the wall and crashed to the floor; Mrs. Gideon cried out as if in pain. Roarke closed his eyes and shuddered just perceptibly. Everyone else jumped in their seats. Irma seemed then to come back to the present, and beside Leslie, she sensed Roarke relax at last. She wondered what he had seen.

"Oh, it's over," Mrs. Gideon murmured sadly. "Something went wrong."

Zoltan heaved a deep sigh, and Tattoo turned to Roarke. "Boss, what about her fantasy?" he wanted to know.

Roarke regarded him for a long moment, then looked at their guest, moving only his eyes. "Perhaps Mrs. Gideon doesn't deserve to have her fantasy fulfilled," he said quietly.

Tattoo frowned heavily and made a face, and Leslie stared at him in amazement. She never would have thought he'd make a statement like that; what did it mean?

‡ ‡ ‡

About an hour after supper, when it had already grown dark out, Irma Gideon came storming into the study with Keith on her heels. She was spitting mad and made no attempt to hide it. "What do you think you were doing back there?" she demanded, striding straight to the desk and blasting her words out like bullets. "How could you do such a thing to me?"

"Please be calm, Mrs. Gideon," Roarke suggested gravely.

Leslie stared from her chair beside Roarke's desk as the old woman glared at her guardian. "It's so embarrassing, so humiliating, in front of all those people. Mr. Roarke, what happened to my fantasy?"

Roarke let a beat or two elapse before saying calmly, "I stopped it."

"You did?" Mrs. Gideon gasped.

"Why, boss?" Tattoo asked.

"Sit down, Mrs. Gideon," Roarke suggested. She stared at him, drew in a breath as if to speak, then seemed to change her mind. "Please," Roarke urged and gestured at the boy. "Keith?" At last the two reluctantly took chairs; Leslie watched Roarke round the desk and her chair, speaking when he was just alongside her. "I stopped it, Tattoo, because…" He looked then to their guest. "…you, Mrs. Gideon, lied to me."

"But I—" the stunned, still-angry woman began.

"Now, please allow me to continue, and then you may correct me if I am mistaken, all right?" Roarke offered. "The fantasy we agreed on was for you to travel beyond…_and back_. I don't wish to be harsh with you, but I don't think you had the slightest intention of coming back." Mrs. Gideon's gaze slid from him to Keith, who stared at her.

"Grandma, is that true?" he demanded, sounding betrayed.

"I…I thought if I liked it, I might…" Her words trailed off, and Roarke slanted a quick glance at Leslie, who had hitched her chair forward so as not to feel excluded.

"And was it your idea to go out in a dramatic way, in front of an audience, to depart and then just not come back?" Roarke asked, moving around Mrs. Gideon's chair as if to drive the question further home.

Now subdued, she admitted, "Well, it was Zoltan's idea, and I went along with it, because I was angry. I was tired of giving my whole life to Howard's promise and never finding the answer." Roarke glanced at Tattoo and Leslie; the men nodded at each other, and Leslie shook her head once or twice, just a little.

"Grandma," Keith said reproachfully, "Zoltan just wanted publicity for himself. Can't we just go home and forget about the whole thing?" Roarke's gaze shifted to him, then back to his grandmother, who shook her head firmly.

"No," she said with finality and turned to her host. "I would still like to take that journey, if it's possible, Mr. Roarke. Is it possible?"

"Yes, it is," Roarke said, changing Keith's pleading look into one of dismay. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

"I wish you wouldn't do this," he muttered.

His grandmother smiled at him. "It'll be just for me this time, Keith," she assured him. "To satisfy an old lady's wish."

"But the fantasy," Keith pointed out, "is to go beyond and come back. Isn't it, Mr. Roarke?" Roarke glanced at him, then at her.

"What about it, Mrs. Gideon?" he prompted.

She smiled. "Well, first it was Howard's promise. This time it's Irma's promise. Does that make you feel better, Keith?" she asked gently.

Keith grinned, looking much relieved. "Lots better, Grandma."

"How about it, Mr. Roarke?" Mrs. Gideon asked. "Do I get my fantasy?"

Roarke's thoughtful frown seemed aimed first at her, then at Leslie, who stared up at him almost wistfully through her bangs. After a moment he seemed to reach a decision and took the old lady's hand, nodding. "I'll make all the necessary arrangements and contact you, Mrs. Gideon," he told her. She gazed gratefully up at him, and he smiled slightly, taking note of Keith's dubious mien.

Leslie got up and ventured over to stand by his chair while Roarke and Tattoo escorted Mrs. Gideon to the door. "I know you're worried," she said a little timidly, "but if I know one thing, it's that your grandmother _will_ come back. Mr. Roarke keeps his promises."

"I'm sure he does," Keith said, staring up at her. "The question is whether Grandma will keep hers." He got out of his chair and started to leave, then caught himself and looked back, taking in her expression. "Um…are you gonna be there, at whatever Mr. Roarke's planning to do?"

"If you want me to, I will," she said.

"I want you to," Keith assured her and smiled. She smiled back, and he murmured a good night and followed his grandmother out the door.

§ § § - December 16, 1979

Roarke's construction crew had gotten to work on the damaged lab very early Sunday morning; and when he, Tattoo, Leslie, Professor Clebe and Martha Meeks arrived at ten, it was nearly repaired, with a few workers still hammering new shutters into place. One man was preparing to replace the glass in the windows as they paused at the door.

"Well," said Roarke with an optimistic smile, "here we are again. Ms. Meeks?" She beamed and went inside; Roarke gestured the professor in after her. Tattoo gave a fatalistic shrug and followed suit. Leslie hesitated, staring apprehensively at Roarke and biting her lip; he returned her gaze with a hope-filled, _well, let's try it_ smile and guided her inside with a hand on her shoulder. Her reluctance was lost on Clebe and Ms. Meeks, who were looking around again. Roarke swept a hand through the air. "It still has everything you need," he said, "give or take a few items."

"Oh, it's just fine, Mr. Roarke," Clebe assured him.

Martha Meeks nodded and smiled brightly. "It's clean," she offered, and Roarke eyed her oddly for a moment, then schooled his expression as Tattoo came up to them, carrying blue lab coats which he offered to their guests.

Clebe ventured, "I'm, uh, terribly sorry about that little accident."

Roarke held up a hand. "Oh, please, don't apologize, professor—accidents do happen. Now, will you excuse us? Tattoo, Leslie?" Before he had even spoken the names, Leslie's hand had grabbed the doorknob and was already turning it; Roarke and Tattoo followed her out, nearly as eager to get away as she was.

On the porch, Tattoo hesitated and gestured with one thumb over his shoulder, but Roarke dismissed his silent question with a reassuring headshake, raising his palms a little to indicate that all was well. Leslie was already climbing into the car. "Mr. Roarke," she called insistently, just loudly enough to catch her guardian's attention.

"All right, Leslie," he replied patiently, and he and Tattoo went to the car and got into the front seats. No sooner had they done so than a huge explosion, even bigger than that of the previous day, blasted through the windows (which fortunately were still glassless) and blew the doors wide open. The two workers on the porch dove for cover, and Leslie reared back in her seat and screamed, collapsing into as small a ball on the seat as she could and covering her head, all in one swift motion. Smoke and flames rolled out of the building, and a figure sailed through the doorway and landed on the other side of the street.

Roarke and Tattoo stared in astonishment; something creaked and they turned to see Martha Meeks stagger to the door, a silly grin on her face. In the lane, Clebe managed to gain his feet, aimed an even sillier grin at his hosts, then dropped dazedly to his knees.

"Boss, he's gonna blow up the whole island!" Tattoo exclaimed.

Roarke flicked a sliver of burnt wood off one sleeve and then noticed Leslie cowering in the back. "Leslie, are you all right?" he asked, making Tattoo twist around to look.

She glared blackly at them both. _"Eleven,"_ she spat in reply, and her guardian and his assistant glanced at each other in surprise, stifling smiles.

An hour later they all returned to try once again; this time the repairs were minimal, consisting of boards nailed across the windows and the doors remounted on their hinges. Clebe peered doubtfully at the building and then at Roarke, who smiled in a decidedly strained manner and said, "Just like new."

"It is?" Leslie retorted, scowling at the haphazard repair job.

"…Practically," Roarke amended. "Uh, shall we go inside?"

The lone worker still driving nails into boards cast a glance over his shoulder, then looked again and goggled in horror at sight of Clebe. He dropped his hammer, edged hastily across the porch and off the far end, and fled; the others paused in surprise and watched him go. "I'm with him," Leslie announced, not caring who heard her.

"Leslie," Roarke rebuked sternly, and she shot him a mutinous glare but subsided anyway. Once inside the now minimally furnished lab with its smoke-smudged interior walls, Roarke observed, "Well, they always say that the third time is the charm. I only hope that this will suffice, professor…does it?"

"Oh, it's more than adequate, Mr. Roarke," Clebe said, sounding slightly weary but clearly trying to be gracious all the same.

"Oh, I'm glad," Roarke said with a relieved smile.

Martha Meeks nodded and said after a moment, "It's…clean."

This wasn't quite true anymore, but Roarke agreed with her anyway, then caught Leslie's expression. "Well, good luck. Come, Tattoo and Leslie." They immediately left while Clebe and Ms. Meeks re-donned their lab coats.

From the car, they all three shot a cautious glance back at the lab. "We better get out of here _now,"_ Leslie hinted strongly, and for once Roarke needed no second urging. In fact, he hit the accelerator hard enough to make the tires screech on the way out.

When they'd made it to the main house without hearing any blasts behind them, Leslie finally relaxed. "I didn't think we'd get here safe," she muttered.

Roarke shook his head. "Try to have some faith, Leslie," he suggested.

Leslie only snorted, and Tattoo peered at his boss with a jaundiced look. "Come on, boss, can you really blame her?" he asked pointedly.

Pinned by their accusing stares, Roarke had to admit, "No, I really can't."

Leslie gave one sharp nod, feeling vindicated somehow; then a question entered her mind. "Um, Mr. Roarke…what's the secret ingredient that Professor Clebe needs, that he can't get anyplace but here—and is it explosive?"

Roarke smiled at her with understanding. "Actually, Leslie, nerium-19 is quite stable, and further, it will stabilize any volatile components in the professor's formula."

"No kidding," she said, astonished. "Well, then, I think maybe if you'd filled all those beakers with nerium-19 in the first place, there wouldn't have been any accidents and no reason to spook everybody, do a ton of repairs, and notch up the formula's name a couple of numbers."

Roarke sighed heavily. "Thank you, Leslie," he said with a touch of weary irony in his tone that she didn't miss, and went to his desk while Leslie and Tattoo grinned at each other behind his back.

Roarke went out about half an hour later to check on the preparations for the next phase of the Gideon fantasy, and came back just as Mana'olana was telling them lunch was ready. They were halfway across the room when the phone rang; it turned out to be Lauren, calling to ask Leslie what those explosions had been that they'd been hearing outside town that weekend. Leslie fended her off with a vague promise to explain it on Monday at school lunch, then hung up to keep her friend from pushing the subject and scuttled after Roarke and Tattoo for the lunch break.

Just as they were finishing the meal, Clebe and Ms. Meeks ran into the lane, with the professor brandishing a flask full of some clear substance. "Success, Mr. Roarke!" he shouted in triumph. "The nerium-19 did it! The formula is complete and perfected!"

"Splendid! Congratulations!" Roarke lauded, rising from his chair. Tattoo and Leslie got up as well. "Do you plan to test it?"

"Yes, we do," Ms. Meeks sang out, her grin so huge it seemed to swallow the rest of her face. "And you'll be the first to see it in action!"

"That's right," Tattoo said unexpectedly, and at Roarke's and Leslie's surprised stares, he elaborated: "I told them they can use my car to demonstrate the formula."

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other, then at their guests, who were grinning so hard their faces should have started to crack. Clebe gestured at his companion. "Martha, get the canister."

They spent the next fifteen minutes or so watching Clebe hose down Tattoo's little car with the formula, using a spray hose attached to a two-foot-tall black metal canister. The car's red paint gleamed in the noon sun, and Tattoo turned to Roarke and Leslie. "So, boss, Leslie, what do you think?" he asked.

"Well, I think it was exceedingly thoughtful of you to volunteer your car for the professor's field test," Roarke said, smiling.

"Well, we all have to do our best to promote progress," Tattoo said expansively.

"Is that why you charged Professor Clebe only fifty dollars for the use of your car?" Roarke retorted. Tattoo stared at him, stunned and guilty all at once; Leslie snickered in spite of herself. Roarke shot Tattoo a last wry look and went to get a closer look at the ongoing treatment of the little car.

"How you doing, Professor?" Ms. Meeks asked.

"Just this little spot right here on the fender, and…right there, and…it is…done!" Clebe lifted the spray rod, and everyone straightened up to study the car, as if its appearance were supposed to change somehow now that it had been treated with the formula.

"And, uh, what's next?" Tattoo inquired.

"Well, we usually allow the ZX76411 to dry overnight," Clebe explained; "then we test it for durability in the morning. But we don't really have that long, so we're going to give it two hours in the sun and the breeze to help speed it along. But I am certain that this is the final breakthrough."

"In that event, I suggest that a celebration is in order," Roarke said.

"I'll drink to that!" Tattoo agreed, earning a mildly dirty look from Roarke. His smile faded and he sighed in disappointment, evoking laughter from Leslie.

Their appointment with the Gideons commenced not too long thereafter; leaving Tattoo's car to sit in the sun and dry, Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie headed for the island hospital, where they had been allotted an unused operating room for Irma's "journey". A medical examination table stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by several large machines; on the table lay Irma Gideon, with various wires attached to her forehead by suction cups. The medtech hooking up the machines inquired, "You comfortable, Mrs. Gideon?"

"Yep. Raring to go," she said, beaming up at Roarke.

"Boss, why all these machines?" Tattoo asked.

Keith, standing beside him, answered before Roarke could. "Oh, they're standard sensor consoles for recording pulse, EEG, skin temperature, stuff like that."

The medtech nodded. "That's right. I'll monitor Mrs. Gideon's vital signs so that we can keep track of how she's doing." Tattoo nodded understanding.

"Tattoo," Mrs. Gideon said, "you keep your eye on them. When they all turn into straight lines, that's when you start worrying." Leslie, standing beside Roarke, winced and let her head fall forward, staring at the floor.

Keith was none too happy with this remark either. "Now Grandma, don't joke about that," he admonished.

She had been smiling teasingly, but gave him a concerned look. "Keith, if it's too upsetting…" she began.

But Keith shook his head. "No…no, it's all right. I mean, it's just gonna be dreams, or hypnosis, or something." Leslie looked up at that, then checked for Roarke's reaction. He only smiled; Mrs. Gideon chuckled in amusement.

"Mr. Roarke," she asked softly, "can we get this show on the road?"

Roarke nodded, still smiling. He gave Leslie's shoulder a quick squeeze before step-ping forward. "All right, Mrs. Gideon, just lie back." She nodded once, then followed each direction as Roarke gave it. "Close your eyes and relax…fine. Now, imagine yourself in the most peaceful and secure place possible. Your trip will begin from there." Keith and Leslie looked at each other, then stared at Irma; Tattoo's gaze kept shifting from one face to another, trying to keep track of all the reactions. "First, you will feel as if you are floating away." Irma's hands drifted to her sides and lay there as Roarke stepped back and went on: "Softly…gently…rising…floating…"

Irma went limp, a small smile on her face; the same blue aura they'd seen at the séance surrounded her again, and this time they could hear the sizzle of electricity crackling around her. The unobtrusive peeping of the heart monitor changed suddenly to a steady whine, and Tattoo looked around. "Boss, the machine—the lines have gone flat."

Before anyone could respond, a smokelike blue mist drifted into the air above Irma, floating steadily toward the ceiling; they all watched it go, openmouthed, and Roarke murmured, _"Bon voyage."_ The mist hit the ceiling and vanished, leaving Irma lying there as if she had just died. For all Keith and Leslie knew, she had.

The two teenagers and Tattoo stared intently at a perfectly still Irma; finally Keith could bear no more and asked, "Mr. Roarke…what's going on?"

Roarke broke his gaze from the ceiling and focused on Keith, but said nothing. Leslie leaned cautiously forward, unable to hold back any longer. "Mr. Roarke, is she dead?"

"No, Leslie, she's just…how shall I put it?" Roarke's unfocused gaze traveled to Mrs. Gideon as he searched for the right words. "Just, uh…gone." Tattoo looked rather taken aback, and Leslie compressed her lips into a thin line. At the moment, to her, "gone" looked no different from "dead".

At least a minute passed, with Tattoo shifting nervously in place and Leslie and Keith both minutely scrutinizing Irma for some sign of life. Roarke's voice, though soft, startled them all. "How is everything going, Keith?"

"I'm a little worried about her," Keith confessed, and at Roarke's prompt, added with visibly increasing fear, "Y'know, I'm really having a very hard time believing that all this is really happening. But what if…" He hesitated, and Leslie could see his Adam's apple working as he fought his emotions. "What if she doesn't want to come back?"


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § - December 16, 1979

"You sensed that she didn't want to come back before," Leslie reminded her guardian, on their way to make a check on Tattoo's car. "So I don't blame Keith for being afraid she won't this time either. I'm not sure we should've left him there all by himself like that."

"The decision is ultimately not mine to make, Leslie," Roarke told her gently. Then he looked up as they rounded the bend in the lane and realized Tattoo's car had disappeared. "What on earth…?"

"Where's my car?" Tattoo demanded.

"We're going to find out," Roarke said. "We'll try the lagoon first."

It turned out to be an accurate guess; they pulled off the Ring Road into a small secluded turnoff and parked, just in time to see Clebe—standing beside Tattoo's car and ringed by a gaggle of reporters—tug on a pair of long black rubber gloves, with Martha Meeks' help. They got out of the car and looked on questioningly. "Acid!" Clebe growled in dramatic fashion.

Ms. Meeks produced a beaker and handed it to him. "Acid!" she echoed emphatically.

"Acid?" Tattoo hissed, horrified.

"The strongest, most deadly available," Clebe said, as if confirming Tattoo's word. He displayed the heavy glass jar to the watching throng, then said, "Corrugation," upon which Martha laid a piece of ribbed metal atop the hood of the little car. With a flourish, Clebe yanked the stopper out of the jar and overturned it. "Observe!" The stuff ate a hole through the corrugated metal, which Clebe then lifted and tossed aside before pouring a drop of the acid directly onto the hood itself. Smoke wafted up from it, but otherwise it affected the treated car not a whit. Tattoo sagged in relief. "So, you can readily see—ZX76411 is totally impervious to hammer, chisel and acid!"

A dark-haired man in a light-blue suit and tie inquired, "Just when do you expect your formula to hit the open market, professor?"

Clebe beamed. "It's a bit premature, but—"

At that point Roarke decided enough was enough and cut him off with, "I'm afraid the professor doesn't care to comment on anything further." Clebe wheeled around and stared at him, looking thwarted.

"Hey," the blue-clad reporter protested, "we've got a lot of unanswered questions."

"All of which will be answered in due time," Roarke replied, unperturbed.

Clebe leaned in and protested, "Uh, Mr. Roarke, I was just beginning to enjoy myself."

Roarke's expression hardened. "I am sorry to burst in like this, professor, but publicizing your formula at this time could have some very far-reaching effects."

"Oh." Clebe digested this a moment, then nodded and turned to the gathering. "The press conference is over." Groans went up, but the crowd began to disperse.

Martha trotted over to join them. "Why?" she asked.

Roarke stared at them. "Whatever possessed you to call a press conference?"

Clebe shrugged. "All my life I've been a nobody, and this is a chance for me to be somebody," he said simply.

Roarke made a noise of distress. "Professor, a discovery of this magnitude—well, let me see if I can put it in perspective. Men have killed for far less."

Identical aghast looks burst across Clebe's and Martha's faces, and Martha clutched the acid jar against herself like a life ring. "Oh," Clebe muttered, turning bright red.

"Yes, 'oh'," Roarke agreed. "Come with me, you're to remain in your bungalow until further notice." Meekly, Martha and Clebe climbed into the car; Leslie squeezed in front with Roarke and Tattoo, and they departed with some haste. When they had dropped off their guests, Roarke requested that Tattoo remain behind and take any phone calls, and monitor the news just in case, while he took Leslie with him so that they could look for some plants Roarke needed to replenish a few of his potions.

They had been at it for perhaps two hours or so when the sound of a small motor hit their ears, and the next moment Tattoo's little car careened around a couple of bushes and skidded to a stop. Its driver looked frantic. "Boss, boss!"

Roarke and Leslie both stopped to stare at him. "Yes, what is it, Tattoo?" he asked.

"We are in big trouble," Tattoo said a bit breathlessly, his French accent thicker than usual. "Private jets are landing on the island. Boats are anchoring from all over."

"So soon? Wow, that was really fast," Leslie marveled.

"Really? What's the occasion?" Roarke inquired.

"Professor Clebe. They're looking for him. Everybody's looking for him!"

"Ah, to buy his formula," Roarke guessed, smiling.

Tattoo looked exasperated. "No, to lynch him!" he exclaimed.

"Oh," Roarke said with approval and began to nod.

"Mr. Roarke!" Leslie burst out in disbelief, and at that moment it sank in fully as to what Tattoo had actually said. He gave Tattoo a startled look, and the Frenchman nodded hard, his thick black hair flying.

"All right, let's get back to the house," Roarke said briskly, snapping shut the ledger he had been using to inventory the plants. "Meet us there as soon as you can, Tattoo."

But Roarke and Leslie were waylaid on their route back by a group of business-suited men who recognized Roarke's white attire and flagged the car down, shouting his name. One stepped out in front and introduced himself as Hobart, and before Roarke could explain who Leslie was, the men surrounded both her and Roarke and moved into the clearing off the road, like a swarm of bees. Hobart was talking earnestly the whole while, and it finally dawned on Leslie that he was strongly protesting Clebe's revolutionary formula. "I can't emphasize enough what a disaster this could be, as president of the International Manufacturers' Association. I must insist that this product never reach the marketplace. Can you imagine what this would do to our profits, Mr. Roarke? Country clubs closing from coast to coast. Yachts repossessed. The nation's economy, ruined!"

Leslie barely refrained from rolling her eyes in disgust. _Who cares about stupid country clubs?_ she thought incredulously. Didn't this guy care about the workers who, she now realized, would probably be unemployed? Before she could get her guardian's attention, he broke in, "Uh, Mr. Hobart, gentlemen…I will personally convey your feelings to Professor Clebe. On that you have my word."

Hobart leaned forward, actually shaking with intensity. "I'm afraid, Mr. Roarke, we can't afford to take any chances. The only viable approach is to deal directly with this enemy of the free-enterprise system, and stop him! C'mon, gentlemen." With that, Hobart and his companions strode away, undoubtedly intending to do someone great bodily harm; Roarke could only watch them go.

"Country clubs and yachts," Leslie spat then. "You can see who _he_ really cares about."

Roarke sighed. "I think we'd better have a chat with Professor Clebe."

They had gone barely ten paces back to the car when someone else hailed him, and they paused to see another group of suits emerging from the trees. The man in the lead, a Mr. Mason, didn't even stop to greet them but just started right in on Roarke. "As spokesman for the Worldwide Workers' Union, I tell you this ZX76411 cannot be permitted to reach the marketplace! Thousands of plants will be forced to shutter; millions of good union workers will be thrown out of jobs. The United States will experience a depression even worse than in the thirties!" Roarke tried to console him, but the man steamrollered right over him. "No time for talk, Mr. Roarke! We've got to find this enemy of unionism and stop him." And that group marched off, leaving Roarke staring after them.

"There go those far-reaching effects you talked about earlier," Leslie remarked, and he gave her a long look of wry agreement.

"Indeed. Under the circumstances, our next urgent action is to get to the professor's bungalow and explain to him what's happening."

They drove directly there, only to find that both Clebe and Martha were missing. Now alarmed, Roarke warned Leslie to hang on and got back onto the Ring Road, heading for the stable area as fast as he dared drive in search of the missing guests. He veered off the short paved lane leading into the stables and detoured onto one of the many dirt lanes crisscrossing this area, most of which doubled as horse trails, telling Leslie to keep her eyes out for any sign of the professor or Ms. Meeks.

In the end, they didn't have to. Seated against a large tree some distance ahead of them was a small figure, and as they approached, they could both hear a female voice shouting at them. Roarke stopped the car short and, with Leslie right behind him, jumped out. He knelt to untie Martha Meeks, who had been loosely bonded at the wrists and ankles. "They've got the professor," she gasped before either he or Leslie could speak. "Two guys, Russian, I think."

Roarke and Leslie traded one swift glance before he got Martha's bonds loose, and the three of them ran back to the car. Leslie gave up the front seat to Martha and slid into the middle, glancing incidentally behind them as she did so. Then she gasped. "Mr. Roarke, there're two _more_ guys back there!"

Roarke turned in his seat enough to look; sure enough, there was another car parked about a hundred feet behind the rover. "Stop!" shouted a man who emerged from the driver's seat. "We're the CIA!"

Without a word, Roarke started the car and instantly sent it leaping forward; the CIA man scrambled back into his car and promptly gave chase. Martha scanned the road ahead, and after a few minutes exclaimed, "There they are." Roarke put on more speed, and they were soon just a couple of car lengths behind an enormous brown boat of a vehicle with three figures inside. Unfortunately, they in turn were followed, somewhat less closely, by the CIA car. Leslie kept shooting glances out the back window.

The Russians skidded around a corner, passing yet another car, this one dark green and containing four men. Leslie caught the merest glimpse of the driver's face as they flashed by and recognized Hobart; unable to resist, she watched the green car shoot into the road behind the CIA car.

As if the parade weren't already long enough, they encountered still another car parked by the road. Leslie could see jaws sink as its occupants watched the brown land yacht, the red station wagon, a blue coupe and a green sedan speed past them. The driver, she noticed, was Mason; sure enough, once the fourth car had sailed by, Mason stomped on the gas and fishtailed into line.

Another bend came up; the Russians and Roarke managed to negotiate it without mishap, but the CIA car overshot the turn and careened into the crossroad. Hobart's car narrowly missed them and spun almost out of control before correcting itself and regaining the road, now third in line. The CIA men rejoined the chase, nothing daunted, but almost hit Mason's car and sent both fishtailing wildly all over the road before they grabbed control. Leslie watched, laughing in spite of herself; when the fun ended, she turned back around just in time to see the Russians sail through a covered bridge, crunching their front end against the road coming out the far side. Roarke slowed down just enough to turn the drop into a severe bump. Martha blinked, and Leslie barely managed to keep her head from punching through the canopy roof.

"Relax, Ms. Meeks, the chase will soon be over," Roarke said. "This road dead-ends up ahead." At his words, Leslie, seeing these roads for the first time, squinted through the windshield, trying to see if he was right. Martha released another of her nervous giggles.

The predicted dead end came up so suddenly that the Russians screamed into a huge doughnut trying to stop their car. Roarke pulled up relatively sedately not far away and veered the car off to one side, just in time to clear the way for the other three cars, which came slamming in one by one against each other. Everyone piled out of their respective vehicles; from the land yacht emerged a pair of men dressed as if they expected a blizzard to strike any second now, in long fur coats and flowerpot-shaped fur hats. Both carried guns, and the older one lifted his. "You will kindly stand where you are," he snapped.

"What's going on?" Hobart demanded curtly.

Roarke obliged him by answering, "These two Russian gentlemen are kidnapping Professor Clebe in order to obtain his formula, you see."

"I'm not so sure I object," remarked Mason.

"Ditto," said Hobart as Clebe, who had sneaked out of the Russians' car, sprinted across the clearing and into Martha's arms. Hobart went on, "We don't have to worry about it ruining western civilization."

Mason started to grin. "Let the Russians have him, Mr. Roarke."

Just then another voice yelled, "Freeze! We're CIA. Drop your guns." One of the men who had first started following the rover was aiming a gun at them over the top of his own car. The Russians, looking thwarted, reluctantly followed the order. Then they heard the sound of yet another car approaching, and everyone turned to look. It was another rover, driven by one of Roarke's employees; with him was a very frantic Tattoo.

"Boss, boss, I gotta talk to you!" he insisted, jumping out and heading for Roarke. Leslie came around the back of their car just in time to see Tattoo's chauffeur remove a large white canvas bag from the middle seat of the second rover and drag it across the grass in Tattoo's wake.

"Yes, what is it, Tattoo?" Roarke asked.

"The formula—it's no good!" Tattoo announced, to the astonishment of everyone, even the CIA men.

Leslie and Roarke looked at each other. "How do you know?" she asked.

"What do you mean, 'it's no good'?" Roarke added.

"My car," Tattoo said urgently. "It's, like, disappeared."

Roarke said skeptically, "Your car disappeared. Tattoo, you're exaggerating again."

"_Look,_ boss! Show him," Tattoo told the driver. And while everyone watched, the man upended the canvas bag, spilling out a forlorn collection of wheel rims and assorted unidentifiable car parts. Roarke and Leslie stared at it, then at each other, and finally at Tattoo, who looked as if he were about to burst into tears. Roarke glanced curiously in Clebe's direction, and Tattoo followed his gaze, his sorrowful look morphing into a glare. Clebe looked sheepish, Martha amused.

"Well, Professor Clebe, what do you have to say now about your ZX76410 formula?" Roarke inquired, more amused than anything else.

"Eleven," Leslie broke in as a reminder, earning a filthy look and an upraised fist from the enraged Tattoo. She backed off a few steps, trying not to grin.

Clebe shrugged and said helplessly, "Well, no plan is perfect!"

"You can say that again," muttered Tattoo, still glaring. Leslie giggled despite her best intentions; Tattoo actually feinted at her, and she had to duck behind Roarke, who was stifling his own smile.

‡ ‡ ‡

Having finally gotten everyone calmed down and/or into custody, depending on their identity, Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie walked into the Gideons' borrowed hospital room only to see Keith lying flat on a second examination table, as motionless and quiet as his grandmother. Leslie stared at him and then turned to Roarke. "Has he 'gone' with her too?"

Roarke nodded. "I'm afraid so, Leslie."

"Can't we do something?" Tattoo wanted to know.

"There is little we can do, my friend. But even if there were, I think it's best that we don't interfere. Something tells me Keith knows what he's doing." Tattoo and Leslie looked at each other doubtfully, but there was nothing they could do except take his word.

Several minutes passed; then Keith's eyelids fluttered and he sat up so abruptly that he startled Tattoo and Leslie. "Grandma," he gasped, swung himself off his table and brushed past Tattoo, hurrying to the elderly woman's side and grasping her limp hand in his. "Has she moved, Mr. Roarke?" Roarke shook his head, and Keith stared at Mrs. Gideon, his voice growing unsteady. "I told her I needed her, Mr. Roarke," he said helplessly. "She just thinks she's dumb and old, but she's the only person I love. Grandma, please, come back. Come back to me, please. I need you!" Out of the corner of his eye, Roarke noticed movement, and saw Tattoo bowing his head and Leslie with her eyes full of empathetic tears.

Then the heart monitor began to emit regular beeps, catching everyone's attention. Tattoo saw it first. "Boss, look!" Roarke, Leslie, and especially Keith followed his pointing finger; then Keith wheeled back around and stared at his grandmother. Leslie saw Roarke frown slightly, his dark eyes hooded for just a moment; Mrs. Gideon's eyes opened, and he relaxed as she turned her head a bit and stared up at him with a bright smile, which he returned with quiet relief.

Mrs. Gideon turned then to her grandson, noted Leslie and Tattoo watching wide-eyed, and beamed. "Oh, a welcoming committee!" she exclaimed softly, and Keith let out a relieved laugh and hugged her right there where she lay. Roarke glanced at Tattoo, who smiled, and Leslie, whose face reflected happy delight. One of her tears escaped, but Roarke understood; he brushed it away with a gentle finger and drew her close with one arm.

§ § § - December 17, 1979

"Ah, Professor Clebe, Ms. Meeks," Roarke greeted them as they stepped out of the first car. "I almost feel like a refund on your fantasy is in order."

"Oh no, Mr. Roarke. My fantasy was to perfect ZX76411, and I did; it's just that the results were temporary," Clebe explained.

"Oh, so all you have to do now is make it permanent," said Roarke.

The professor admitted, "Yes, but…I've sort of lost interest in the project." Leslie saw Martha Meeks beaming and rolling her head, as if in self-deprecation, and wondered why.

"Oh?" said Roarke in surprise.

Clebe grinned. "Well, somewhere along the way I discovered Martha, and the two of us are gonna haul off and get married!" They both began to laugh heartily; Roarke chuckled obligingly, but used their mirth as cover for the bewildered glance he traded with Leslie and Tattoo. Leslie had never seen quite such a switch in a guest's priorities!

"Well, Tattoo and Leslie and I wish you all the luck in the world," said Roarke.

"But this time," Tattoo put in, "please don't experiment on my car."

That served only to increase Clebe's and Martha's laughter, and this time Roarke and Leslie joined in, waving the pair off to the plane. Tattoo seemed relieved to turn his attention to Irma and Keith Gideon as their car drew up. Irma was carrying the potted fern she'd borne when they arrived two mornings before; Roarke took it from her and held it till she had disembarked from the rover. "It's a lovely plant," he said, handing it back.

"Oh, Mr. Roarke, we thank you so much for everything," Irma said gratefully.

"But Grandma," Keith protested, "it was just some kind of mind trip, or dream, or… something." His voice faltered noticeably.

"But you were there too," Leslie protested, and Keith made a face.

Roarke spoke up. "Would it be any less real, Keith, if it were a dream?"

Keith hesitated, then grinned. "Well, I will admit there are a few things I can't explain…yet. And I learned something else. Just because you can't explain something, doesn't mean it isn't true." Roarke nodded approval and glanced at Mrs. Gideon, who nodded back. They exchanged their goodbyes, and the Gideons headed for the plane.

"Boss, can I ask you a question?" Tattoo said.

"Well, of course, Tattoo, what is it?" Roarke queried curiously.

Tattoo hesitated, looked at Leslie who smiled, and said, "Was it a dream, or what?"

Roarke smiled too. "That's a question each of us must answer for himself. Perhaps you've heard of it: there is a gravestone in Germany which bears the final statement of the man who lies beneath. And it says, _Now I know more than the wisest among you. _ I think that's the way it should remain, don't you?"

"But _you_ know, don't you?" Tattoo countered, pointing at him for emphasis.

Leslie waited, but Roarke just gazed at him before deftly redirecting Tattoo's attention. "Tell me, Tattoo, how are you getting along without the car?"

"Not very well," Tattoo confessed.

"Then why not take a look over there?" Roarke suggested and pointed at a group of native girls squatting on the other side of the lane. They arose and moved aside, revealing Tattoo's car, as good as new!

"Oh, boss!" Tattoo jogged over to it, with Roarke and Leslie behind him. "Boss, you had it put back together!"

Roarke grinned. "No, not exactly, my friend. I bought you a new one."

"For Christmas?" Tattoo guessed; the holiday was less than ten days away.

"No, for cash," said Roarke teasingly and handed him the key. "Here, drive it in good health." Leslie giggled.

"Thank you, boss," Tattoo said joyfully. "Someday I'll repay you."

"You just did, my friend. That smile on your face is worth everything, right, Leslie?"

"That's for sure," she agreed. "Hey, Tattoo, maybe you could give me a ride to school this morning, huh?" Tattoo rolled his eyes at her, and they all burst into laughter.


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § - April 20, 2007

Lauren sat up straight when she had finished. "You never did explain those explosions," she claimed.

"Oh yes I did," Leslie retorted, grinning. "I told you Professor Clebe had been having trouble perfecting his formula. Believe me, you hardly saw anything. I was right there for two of them, and I told all of you in great detail how terrified I was."

"She's right, cousin," Camille said, grinning and elbowing Lauren. "I remember her describing the blasts and how it affected her and everybody else."

"Ruined one of your precious sundresses, did it?" Christian teased his wife. "As I recall, luckily for you, you received new clothes that same Christmas, so you didn't have very much to worry about in the end."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, but at the time it really ticked me off," Leslie said, "just as much for the way I lost the dress as for the loss itself." She grinned. "Anyway, here's another one that caused Father some hair-raising moments. It was definitely one of the scarier ones that I remember."

§ § § - January 31, 1981

First to step out of the seaplane's hatch was an older woman, dressed rather like a working lady in a gray skirt and jacket, and a white blouse with a large bow at the collar. Her dark hair was arranged in a wavy, shoulder-brushing do, and she wore glasses with large lenses. "Boss, who is she?" inquired Tattoo.

"She claims to be Miss Carla Baines, from Chicago, Illinois," said Roarke.

Tattoo and Leslie both shot him perplexed looks. "She _claims_ to be?" Tattoo asked.

"Yes, Tattoo, I'm afraid she lied about her identity, along with certain other details, in her application…such as her recent divorce action against Mr. Hal Garnett, owner and publisher of _Erotica_ magazine."

"Oh, another one of those stupid girlie mags," Leslie muttered.

Around Roarke's smile, Tattoo asked, "Boss, what're you gonna do about it?"

"Oh, I'm going to grant the lady her fantasy…which she may very well live to regret."

"And what kind of fantasy would that be?" Leslie asked suspiciously.

Roarke smiled slightly. "She wishes to be the world's most desirable woman, because for years she has felt neglected by Mr. Garnett."

Tattoo regarded Carla Baines for another moment, while Leslie grumbled, "Yeesh, some shallow fantasy that is."

"Not necessarily, Leslie," Roarke replied with another of those mysterious smiles of his; she sighed and followed their glances to the dock, where now a man who appeared to be somewhere in his fifties, with a petite dark-haired woman on his arm, was striding down the ramp. He had a camera on a long strap slung over one shoulder and carried a metal case. "Ah yes…the gentleman with the camera equipment is listed as Mr. William T. Keating, photojournalist from New Orleans, accompanied by Mrs. Keating."

"Listed as?" Leslie repeated. "Geez, another assumed name? I guess all our guests are going incognito this weekend."

Tattoo had other things on his mind. "Boss, are we getting our picture in the paper?"

Roarke smiled again. "I very much doubt it, Tattoo. Mr. Keating is interested only in meeting one particular person here."

"Oh, I get it," said Tattoo. "He has a fantasy assignment."

"Not exactly, Tattoo. Mr. Keating tells me that for many years, he has dreamed of tracking down and…_interviewing_ a certain elusive soldier of fortune: Major Kelvin Doyle." Leslie cranked around to stare at him when he put emphasis on the italicized word; she suspected there was much more to this than Roarke was letting on, judging from all the hints he seemed to be dropping.

"Boss, I've heard about him," Tattoo said, impressed. "They call him the Mad Major. He's a famous mercenary leader."

"Mr. Keating believes that the major is living here on Fantasy Island," said Roarke, "under another name, of course. Unfortunately, 'Mr. Keating' is also a _nom de guerre_, you might say…and his interest in locating the Mad Major is infinitely more personal and perilous than any mere journalistic assignment."

"I knew it," Leslie said. "Two assumed names in the same weekend. Bad news."

"Boss, are we in for more trouble?" Tattoo wanted to know. He and Leslie waited, but Roarke only looked at both of them with a grave expression for a moment or two, then accepted his champagne flute and raised it in the weekly welcoming toast.

"I bet there _will_ be more trouble," Leslie whispered to Tattoo. "When two people show up on the same weekend both using fake names, there can't be anything _but_ trouble."

"I bet you're right," murmured Tattoo. But neither of them had any idea exactly how much trouble they were really in for.

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie and Tattoo helped Roarke set up a film projector and screen in the study before William Keating and his wife arrived for their appointment. Roarke had received the short film the day before, and Leslie watched curiously as he sat the reel into place on the projector and threaded the film through the machine, anchoring it into the takeup reel. "So what's this thing about?" she asked.

"It will provide more information on Mr. Keating's quarry," said Roarke. "Tattoo may already know at least some of this, but I felt it would be wise to refresh everyone's memory." He gestured at the club chairs. "You two might prefer to take seats."

No sooner had they done so than the Keatings came in the door and shook hands all around. Roarke introduced Tattoo and Leslie, and Keating introduced his wife. "If you'll kindly take a seat," Roarke requested, "I'd like you both to see this informational newsreel about Major Doyle."

"By all means," Keating replied. "I've wanted to explain who the Mad Major really is and why I want to interview him." He delivered this line quite smoothly, but something about his tone made Roarke regard him curiously for a couple of seconds before nodding acquiescence. He gestured at Leslie, who closed the shutters and lowered the room's lighting before taking her seat; and Tattoo started the projector.

Keating's voice narrated over a scene showing a parade of military jeeps roaring down the street of a nameless town in some foreign country. _"In the sixties and early seventies, wherever civil war and revolution turned a country into a battleground, there you'd find the Mad Major—Kelvin Doyle, at the head of his crack mercenary troops."_ The screen showed a dark-blond, bearded man wearing camo fatigues and a dark beret. Leslie saw Roarke frown slightly, as if in recognition. Tattoo and Roarke exchanged glances as the narration continued: _"The former American marine had become the paid ally of dictators, military juntas, guerillas, and terrorists. Some described him as a glorified hit man."_ Keating leaned intently forward, glaring at the screen. _"Others called him a military genius, king of the Wild Geese—that breed of freelance fighting men who throughout history have wandered the world, hiring out their services to the highest bidder, and…"_

"Some career," Keating remarked, diverting Leslie's attention from the screen.

"Indeed," Roarke said. "Quite a story." He met Tattoo's and Leslie's gazes once more before returning to the screen.

"…_Reserve Officer Doyle, recalled to active duty as a special consultant to the CIA, mysteriously disappeared, and is posted as a deserter. To this day, he remains a fugitive—if, indeed, he is still alive."_ The film ended and Tattoo shut off the projector.

Roarke turned to their guests. "Mr. Keating, what makes you so certain that Mr. Doyle is here on Fantasy Island?"

Keating spoke briskly, almost in run-on sentences. "A friend of mine, a sea captain, put in here recently, saw him on the beach—besides, Mr. Roarke, you wouldn't have granted my fantasy unless you were sure he was here." He watched Roarke expectantly.

"Bill's been dreaming about this since Saigon," said Mrs. Keating. "A world exclusive."

"You were in Vietnam?" Tattoo asked Keating.

"As a correspondent," he replied.

"But that was several years ago," Roarke put in. "You realize that the major may not be the same man you knew then."

Keating's gaze iced over. "A leopard doesn't change its spots, Mr. Roarke," he snapped. "Once a killer—" For some reason he cut himself off, as if he'd seen something in Roarke's gaze that warned him not to continue; Leslie hugged herself in her chair, and his wife and Tattoo both peered at Keating with some surprise. "Uh, well." Keating smiled faintly, visibly donning a friendlier expression. "Can you tell me where he is?"

Roarke took one more second to take the man's measure, then favored him with a cool smile of his own. "I'm afraid you'll have to search for your fantasy, Mr. Keating."

Keating absorbed that, then murmured, "I see." He turned to his wife. "Let's go." She arose, smiling cheerfully, and made her way toward the inner foyer; Keating looked up and offered, "Thanks."

"Good hunting, Mr. Keating," Tattoo said and led him to the door in Mrs. Keating's wake. Roarke watched them go, looking thoughtful.

"I wish he hadn't said 'good hunting'," Leslie ventured nervously when the door closed behind Tattoo. "I've got a funny feeling that guy wants to do something other than just interview the Mad Major—like maybe turn him in."

Roarke studied her for a moment, then smiled and squeezed her shoulder. "Perhaps, Leslie, perhaps," he said softly. "For the moment, we have another appointment to keep, so when Tattoo returns, we'll go and see Miss Baines into her fantasy."

This one required a drive to the southwestern corner of the island, where the road to the small airport forked off the Ring Road in an easterly direction. Shortly past this turnoff, Roarke pulled the car into a tiny dead-end lane and stopped beside a tranquil pool with two statues in the middle and various tropical plants enclosing the perimeter except for a small square cement stepping stone that led into the pool. Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie got out of the car and paused beside the front passenger seat, where Carla Baines still sat.

"Here we are, Miss Baines," said Roarke. "Two likenesses of the world's most desirable women in classical times, known to the ancient Greeks as Aphrodite, goddess of sensual beauty, and to the Romans as Venus, goddess of love."

Carla chuckled self-consciously. "Mr. Roarke, I do appreciate this lovely gift you gave me, but…" She peered down at the blue one-piece swimsuit Roarke had left her in her bungalow. "…no bathing suit is going to make me into one of those ladies."

"You look most…desirable, if I may say so, Miss Baines," Roarke offered.

"Thank you," Carla said with another self-deprecatory chuckle. "My thirty-nine-year-old body also thanks you. But…I…I'm just a little embarrassed about all this, Mr. Roarke."

"Boss, maybe she's changed her mind," Tattoo suggested.

"Have you, Miss Baines?" Roarke asked, as if startled by the idea. "Do you indeed wish to cancel your fantasy?"

Carla looked at Tattoo, whose face grew sphinxlike again, at Leslie who smiled just a little in encouragement, and then at Roarke, clearly waiting for a reply. Then she heaved a sigh and got out of the car at last. They all slowly approached the pool; Roarke made a gesture toward it, and Carla protested, "It's nothing more than plain old water."

Roarke smiled. "Ah, not exactly, Miss Baines. It is rumored," he said, moving to the stone marking the entrance to the pool, "that its source is a secret spring deep in the earth's mantle…a source which also feeds the legendary Fountain of Youth, for which the great explorer Ponce de Leon searched in vain. You need only step into its waters," he concluded, moving toward Carla, "and your fantasy will begin." He reached out and gently removed the long burgundy robe Carla wore over the swimsuit, handing it to Tattoo. "Trust me. Have faith, Miss Baines, in me…in the fountain." He took off Carla's glasses, all the while staring deeply into her wide blue eyes.

Looking a little mesmerized, Carla turned and slowly stepped down into the pool, removing her shoes at the entrance. Tattoo and Leslie looked at each other and then at Roarke, who seemed to be concentrating very carefully on something—the water, Carla, the statues, Leslie wasn't sure.

Carla stopped in the middle of the pool where she stood waist-deep. "What happens now, Mr. Roarke?" she asked hesitantly.

Before anyone could speak, the water around Carla began to bubble and froth as though someone had turned up a giant stove burner beneath her feet; she looked a little alarmed when she began to slowly sink where she stood. Leslie shot her guardian another glance, but he was actually smiling gently, his gaze fixed on Carla till she had finally disappeared completely beneath the surface.

"Boss, she's gone," Tattoo said, startled.

Leslie was staring at the still-bubbling water. "I hope she's not gonna drown."

Roarke smiled at that. "No, on the contrary…she is neither drowning nor gone. Miss Baines is about to arrive." And his smile became a grin.

"Arrive where?" Leslie wanted to know.

Tattoo suddenly grinned. "Wait a minute, I know where. The swimming pool, right? After all, she's gonna be in the World's Most Desirable Woman contest."

"Precisely, Tattoo," said Roarke with a nod.

Leslie rolled her eyes. _"Boh_-ring. There must be a thousand female beauty contests a year, set up for guys to bug out their eyes and hang out their tongues panting after skinny, pretty college girls who know they have to use their looks to get someplace in life because they haven't got enough brains to rely on."

Roarke and Tattoo both stared at her in surprise, and Roarke remarked, "That seems a very harsh assessment, Leslie, don't you think?"

"It's just for fun," Tattoo protested.

"Yeah, you would say that," Leslie grumbled, accompanying him and Roarke back to the waiting rover. "You're a man, and men don't have to put up with degrading stuff like this where they're judged on their looks and nobody cares about who they are inside."

Tattoo stared at her, and Roarke offered gently, "Leslie, would there perhaps be a small case of jealousy driving you?"

Leslie stopped short. "Are you kidding?" she burst out. "The only thing I'm jealous about is that they don't have beauty contests for men. When that happens, and especially when it happens as much as it does for women, _then_ maybe I'll quit complaining."

Roarke and Tattoo both broke into laughter. "Maybe we can arrange that sometime," Tattoo teased her, "and you can be the emcee. Right now I have to worry about getting to this contest because I'm the emcee for it. You want to go with me?"

"I don't know," said Leslie and made a face. "When do you have to be there?"

"It's before lunch," Tattoo told her as they got into the car; he sat up front with Roarke where Carla had been. "I have to announce the finals, and besides, that talk-show host Liz Fuller is supposed to be interviewing Hal Garnett while they're watching. If I'm not on time, they'll all kill me."

"I'll think about it," Leslie muttered, not remotely enthusiastic. Roarke chuckled and backed the car out into the Ring Road.

"As a matter of fact, Leslie, you'd be quite surprised," he commented. "Not all the contestants are what you think of as 'brainless beauties'. Many of them have career ambitions, and in order to pay for their schooling to prepare for said careers, they take advantage of the prize money that is often offered in contests such as this one. Don't be so quick to judge; you may be very pleasantly educated if you take a chance to speak with some of those young women. Who knows, perhaps you yourself will do something similar one day."

At that she sat up sharply. "I don't think so," she scoffed. "I haven't got the looks for something like that. And besides, I'm only in tenth grade. I think I have a while to go yet before I have to figure out what I'm gonna do with my life." She thought a moment. "I do have one question. Considering who's sponsoring this contest, does that mean the competitors have to come out in the buff?"

"No, of course not," said Roarke, quite surprised.

"Huh," she muttered. "Someday I swear they're going to push women's beauty contests to that point."

Tattoo grinned. "I'll make sure to be there if they have one," he said, and then cringed when Leslie lunged forward as if to slap him on the wrist. Roarke laughed and admonished them to settle down, putting on some speed as they moved east up the Ring Road.

Once they reached the main house, Tattoo left immediately to fulfill his emcee role at the beauty contest; Leslie decided to stay at the house and help Roarke get through the mail. They had lunch with Tattoo when he returned, and during the meal he informed them that Carla Baines had made finalist at the beauty contest. "Of course she did," said Leslie. "That's the only way to fulfill her fantasy, isn't it?"

"I would think so," Tattoo remarked.

Roarke smiled. "That's the way she thinks she will fulfill her fantasy. But I daresay she would far prefer to be the most desirable woman to just one man—her husband."

"I don't know about that, if she's divorcing him," Leslie said.

"You'll see," Roarke replied with maddening calm. "Finish your lunch, there's still plenty of mail to get through."

Leslie had just finished sorting the latest stack of envelopes when someone knocked on the door, and Tattoo went to answer it. To his and Leslie's surprise, he let in Mrs. Keating, who was looking spooked and subdued all at once. She had completely lost all her cheer of that morning. "Yes, how can I help you?" Roarke inquired.

The woman sat gingerly in one of the club chairs, hands folded in her lap, flicking nervous glances at Roarke without holding his gaze. "I…" she began, then cleared her throat and tossed another skittish look at Roarke. "I have…um, a confession to make."

Roarke nodded slowly once or twice, then said, "You lied to me, Mrs._…Miss_ Carson." Tattoo frowned; Leslie stared in astonishment.

"You know my real name," the guest mumbled shamefacedly.

"Of course," Roarke said. Deliberately he pinned her with a look and inquired, "Do you realize you are part of a plot to murder Major Doyle?"

"No!" she gasped, horrified. "Bill paid me to come here with him as Mrs. Keating. Th-that's all I know. I-I'm just a cocktail waitress. A free trip to Fantasy Island—well, I jumped at the chance!" Leslie smiled a little; she couldn't blame her. Roarke closed his eyes for a second but said nothing, and Miss Carson said low, "Mr. Roarke, I swear, I had no idea what Bill was planning. Please, just get me out of here."

"Where was, um, Mr. Keating when you last saw him?" Roarke asked.

"The beach. Talking to Doyle."

Roarke nodded and arose, features grim. "Very well. There will be a seat for you on the next plane out."

"Thank you," Miss Carson whispered and rushed out of the study. When the door had closed behind her, Roarke resumed his seat, and Tattoo rounded Leslie's chair while she twisted in it to face her guardian and his assistant.

"Boss, you knew about Mr. Keating's true purpose in coming here," Tattoo said. "Why did you grant him his fantasy?"

"Yeah, especially if this guy's gonna commit murder," Leslie added.

"Because I realized—as Major Doyle himself has always known—that the confrontation between them was inevitable, someday, somewhere. I therefore decided that it might as well be here on Fantasy Island, where I might be able to help him."

"_Can_ you help him?" Tattoo asked hopefully.

Roarke frowned a little. "I hope so, Tattoo. But if the major decides to leave the island, run again, there is no way I can save him."


	8. Chapter 8

§ § § - January 31, 1981

"You mean I have to go to this thing?" Leslie groaned in disbelief. "What about the luau? I'd much rather go to that."

Roarke turned to her with an amused glint in his dark eyes. "My dear Leslie, I am surprised at you! I thought you wanted to be part of my business."

"I do," she insisted, bewildered at the apparent non-sequitur.

"Then you must understand that the business occasionally involves doing things that you may find difficult to stomach," Roarke told her. "I know you find this beauty contest degrading, for whatever reasons; however, if you are to be the proper, gracious host, you will have to present yourself at the reception being held for the contestants. Try to look welcoming, please, and don't disclose your true feelings."

Leslie grunted aloud and squeezed her eyes shut. "Ugh!"

Tattoo sighed loudly and faced her with his hands on his hips. "What's the matter with you, anyway? We've had beauty contests here before and you didn't seem to mind those. So what's your problem this time?"

Startled, she blinked at him, then shot Roarke a sheepish glance and confessed, "It's because of the sponsor—a girlie mag full of nude pictures."

"Ahhh," said Roarke, exchanging an enlightened glance with Tattoo. "And you disapprove of Mr. Garnett's business venture, do you?"

"You bet," Leslie complained. "Using women like that for men's entertainment. It's just another way of exploiting women for the benefit of men, who for some reason think they're superior to women. I'd like to know why that is. Is it because men are physically bigger than we are, and they think size means they're better, or something?"

Roarke laughed. "I'm afraid, my dear Leslie, that that's a question even I can't answer. If you prefer, you may march up to Mr. Hal Garnett himself and air your views, and see what he says once he's heard them."

She gasped and visibly recoiled. "No way. Uh-uh. I don't have the courage."

"Then you better keep your thoughts to yourself," advised Tattoo, grinning. "You don't have to like it, Leslie, but you gotta be there…boss's orders."

"Indeed," said Roarke through a soft laugh.

Leslie threw her hands into the air. "Okay, okay, I'll go. But you just wait…all the women will be in low-cut, revealing costumes, and all the guys will be in business suits, which of course cover everything from the neck down, except the hands. Maybe I'll feel better if there're some hot studs there in Speedos."

Her guardian and Tattoo were still laughing when they reached the open-air stage where the beauty contest was being held. The stage, with a red floor and white trimmings that somehow matched Roarke's fleet of vehicles perfectly, featured a catwalk lined with small white bulbs that blinked in sequence; it was backdropped by a small forest of tropical plants, and the catwalk was surrounded by quite a few people of both sexes mingling, talking and sampling assorted alcoholic beverages. Roarke spoke briefly with two or three people before they were approached by Carla Baines, who did indeed look much younger than Leslie remembered having seen her that morning. "Ah, Miss Baines," Roarke said.

"Oh, Mr. Roarke!" Carla paused and beamed at them all. "You did a terrific job, you and your fountain. Look at me." Leslie noticed that Tattoo was quite obviously doing so, with a small smile of appreciation on his face.

"It's, uh, very difficult not to look at you, Miss Baines," Roarke said, shooting Tattoo a quelling look and discreetly clearing his throat. Tattoo blinked and drew himself upright, schooling his face into a bland _hello, I'm the host_ expression. Roarke then turned to Carla and said a bit pointedly, "I suggest that you enjoy it while it lasts."

"I will enjoy it, Mr. Roarke. Scout's honor," Carla said, briefly raising three fingers in mocking salute.

"Uh, you have not forgotten, I trust…" Roarke let the sentence dangle, and instead merely gestured toward a table near the far side of the room. Tattoo and Leslie glanced in that direction and recognized Hal Garnett sitting there with Liz Fuller, the tabloid-talk-show hostess who had been interviewing Garnett earlier that day. Carla glanced that way as well, then shot Roarke a challenging look. Finally Roarke concluded, "…that when the weekend is over, you will once again, shall we say, look your age."

"Oh, that's all right, Mr. Roarke," Carla said a bit smugly. "I have plenty of time to do what I came here for. Excuse me." She sauntered past them, moving with obviously deliberate steps in the direction of Garnett's table. As they watched, Garnett looked up, caught sight of Carla and gaped, then began to choke on his drink. Liz Fuller hastily reached out and patted his back, trying to help him recover.

Carla drifted to the table and watched him stand up, managing to blurt out, "That's incredible," in between hacking fits.

"Well, that certainly is a nasty cough," Carla commented, in all evident innocence. "You should take something for it."

Garnett seemed oblivious. "The face, the eyes, the way you move…I…"

Laughing, Carla parried, "I know that line. It's from a Cole Porter song, right?"

"You look and sound exactly like—"

"Like who?" Carla queried.

Garnett was still gawking. "Like Marcia. Like my wife."

"Well, I'd like to see your wife," Carla said.

"Oh, well, you can't. She's not here. Also, she…she's not really my wife, she's… divorcing me." Carla nodded thoughtfully.

"Boss, you look worried," Tattoo said.

"I am, Tattoo," Roarke said, frowning at Carla.

"I would be too," Leslie said, disgusted. "Anybody can see she's teasing the poor guy. Just listen to the way she's talking to him. It's awful."

Roarke nodded slightly. "I thought Miss Baines was above that."

That got him both Leslie's and Tattoo's attention. "Above what?"

"Revenge," was all Roarke said, and with that gestured them along. Leslie was relieved that they were already leaving, but now she was boiling over with curiosity. What in the world could Carla Baines have against Hal Garnett that would make her want revenge on him? After all, wasn't she already getting her divorce from him?

"What kind of revenge, boss?" Tattoo asked, clearly as curious as Leslie.

Roarke glanced back at him and at his ward, then shook his head. "Not here. I'll explain it later, if I can. Leslie, perhaps you'd prefer to go to the luau now, and Tattoo, you might go along with her."

They looked at each other. "I don't think so," Leslie said, speaking for them both. "Not till you tell us what's really going on around here."

"Oh?" said Roarke, raising both brows and regarding them with a newly stern look. "I thought you _wanted_ to go to the luau."

The way he said it made her blink and compress her lips, then lick them nervously and glance away. "Come to think of it," she said meekly, "I think I _would_ rather go to the luau. I could check on some of the vacationers and make sure they're happy."

Even Tattoo seemed a bit cowed. "Now that you mention it, that sounds like a really good idea," he agreed hurriedly. "Come on, Leslie, you can drive, we'll get there faster." They scuttled off, and Roarke watched them, letting a broad grin break forth for just long enough to see them duck into the nearest rover.

§ § § - February 1, 1981

The bungalow occupied by William Keating's "wife" now stood empty, so Hal Garnett and his entourage had asked Roarke if they could take it over long enough to take photos for the next issue of Garnett's magazine. Though Roarke had agreed, when he heard the next morning that Carla Baines was there with one of Garnett's photographers, he felt he'd better investigate. Without even bothering to knock, he opened the door, only to see Carla just beginning to remove a short yellow satin gown trimmed with matching boa feathers, while the photographer watched her through his camera lens.

"No," Roarke commanded, startling both of them. He gave the door enough of a shove that it closed with a telling report, before moving down the four steps into the bungalow's main room and lifting the robe back onto Carla's shoulders. "You will please come with me, Miss Baines," he requested coolly. "Now."

The photographer, incensed, came over to confront him. "Look, Mr. Roarke, we happen to be doing a photo session here and I've got work to—"

"Back off, Mr. Strutton," Roarke warned, boring holes in the other man with his eyes. Spooked, the photographer did as told, and Roarke took Carla's arm and guided her up the steps to the door. "I want to see you in my office in three hours," he warned her.

"Right," she muttered and hurried away toward her own bungalow without another word, seeming disgruntled. Roarke watched, sighed gently, and turned away, deeply disappointed. Unfortunately, as much as he wanted to deal with her, he had something else just as urgent that needed taking care of.

Leslie was on the terrace behind the house and saw him on the path; she ran out to join him. "Where're you going?" she asked.

"I need to speak with the major," Roarke said. "Perhaps you'd like to come along?"

"Sure," she agreed. "Did you find Miss Baines?"

Roarke nodded curtly. "I did," he said, in a tone that told her she was better off dropping the subject. "Where's Tattoo?"

"Making the rounds," she said. "You didn't have any messages, and I was actually caught up on the mail for a change. I could use a good walk."

Roarke smiled at that, to her relief. "Good, and I would find the company welcome." His expression grew teasing. "Did you enjoy the luau last evening?"

Laughing, Leslie nodded. "Yeah, it was fun after all. A couple of my friends were there and we had a chance to talk for a while, before Tattoo told me I was shirking my job and I'd better get back on the stick. But I think he was teasing me."

They talked off and on during their trek through the jungle, till Roarke stopped her, frowning a little. She followed his example and listened; there was the rustling of leaves, coming closer every second. Roarke smiled and motioned to her to wait, and she stood beside him, watching; a few moments later, a tall, blond, bearded man in jeans and an open blue shirt knotted together at the stomach emerged from the bushes. He stopped in surprise when he caught sight of them. "Mr. Roarke…Leslie. Good to see you." Roarke nodded.

"Hi, Mr. John," Leslie said, recognizing a denizen of the fishing village.

Roarke smiled and stepped a little closer. "I thought it was time we had a little chat… Major." Leslie blinked, gaped at him, then took a closer look at the man she knew as Mr. John. No wonder he had looked familiar, not only to Roarke but to her, now that she looked back. This man, whom she knew as a dedicated fisherman who sold oysters to the hotel restaurant, was in fact Major Kelvin Doyle!

John's…no, Doyle's…head came up sharply; then he nodded quiet resignation. "I guess it is," he agreed. "Though I'm pretty sure you know all about me."

They all began moving slowly down the trail in the direction Roarke and Leslie had come, and Roarke nodded once. "I know that you are a man of many wars, that you led your own private army in campaigns on three continents, and in less than two decades, changed the course of world history."

Doyle stopped, and Roarke and Leslie followed suit. "I guess my past has finally caught up with me," he admitted. He peered up and to their left, where the rugged jungle interior of the island thrust long-extinct volcanic peaks into the bright blue sky. "Somewhere out there, Jed Morrison is watching. I can just feel it." He sighed.

"Jed Morrison?" Leslie repeated blankly.

Roarke nodded. "Mr. Keating's real name. He is a bounty hunter, rather than the photojournalist he presented himself as."

"Look, I didn't mean to make trouble," Doyle said pleadingly. "I know now I never should have come to Fantasy Island."

Roarke frowned in surprise. "On the contrary. You have been a definite asset to our community…Mr. Doyle. Perhaps you are being unduly harsh on yourself. The 'Mad Major' was a product of a troubled time, a violent era. But it seems to me that, in all of your ventures, you took the side of the underdog."

"Well, I try, Mr. Roarke," Doyle murmured, meandering a few steps away, staring into space. "I've made a lot of mistakes. Men died."

"Indeed," Roarke agreed. "But you also saved many lives. In my opinion, most of the time, you were right. And Mr. Morrison's superiors, those faceless, nameless men who wanted to use you, were wrong—and in the end, disowned you, and made you a scapegoat."

Doyle hesitated, then turned to face them, indecision stamped on his features. "Mr. Roarke…what do you think I should do now?"

"Well, since you ask," Roarke mused, "I suggest you try to arrange…a little party." Both Doyle and Leslie stared at him in astonishment. "For your adopted family," Roarke clarified, "and the many close friends you've made here. There's time enough."

Doyle gave in with almost a chuckle. "Mr. Roarke, you're right. I would like to leave them with some nice memories." Roarke nodded. "I also want you to know that I really tried to leave all that violence behind me."

"I know," Roarke assured him quietly.

"I guess it's true, what they say, though…he who lives by the sword must die by the sword," Doyle murmured. He and Roarke regarded each other for a moment; then Doyle put a hand on Roarke's shoulder. "Thank you. And you're invited, Leslie, okay?" She nodded and managed a nervous smile; Doyle returned it and left them.

"His adopted family?" Leslie asked, going back over their conversation. "I didn't know he had one."

"Yes…as a matter of fact, I think you know Peter Malikoa," Roarke said. "He is one of your classmates, is he not?"

"Oh yeah, Petie Malikoa," Leslie exclaimed in recognition. "He's in a couple of my classes, but I don't really know him to speak to. He's very quiet and serious, studies all the time. He works really hard in school. I didn't know Mr. J—I mean, Major Doyle had adopted him."

"Yes, Petie and his younger sisters were orphaned several years ago by a freak storm, and Major Doyle took them in and has been raising them. It seems he's been a very good influence on the boy in particular. Petie was having trouble in school and getting into a great many fights with his classmates, until the major took him in and steered him back on track. It's going to be a terrible shame…" He let his voice trail off, aware that Leslie was staring at him in alarm, but ignoring it.

"What do you mean?" Leslie demanded. "What's going to happen?"

Roarke snapped out of what appeared to be a reverie and turned to her, smiling. "Don't worry about it now, Leslie. I'd suggest you prepare for a party this evening, and if you like, you might invite a friend or two."

"It's a school night," said Leslie doubtfully. "I'm not sure anybody can come."

"That's all right," Roarke said, "just call your friends and let them know about the party, and if they can come, that's fine; if not, it isn't their fault. Why don't you go on back to the house and get started on that."

She agreed and struck out on a different path, while Roarke continued wandering, a sort of sixth sense guiding him. Sure enough, within a few minutes he spied a dejected-looking Hal Garnett sitting on a rock, staring into space.

"Mr. Garnett?" he said, moving in the man's direction.

Garnett stood up hurriedly. "Oh, Mr. Roarke, thank you for stopping."

"My pleasure. What can I do for you?"

"I, uh…" Garnett hesitated a moment. "I could use some advice…about a girl."

"Indeed," Roarke said teasingly. "I should think you would be the very last man to need advice in that department."

"I know…but this…this is not just any girl. You see—"

Roarke cut him off with a smile. "There is no need to explain, Mr. Garnett. You have met a girl who bears a remarkable resemblance to your wife when she was the same age. Am I correct?"

"Yes," Garnett said, looking startled. "That's right. But it—it's not just looks. It…it goes deeper than that. She…I look at her, I talk to her, and it reminds me of the way things used to be. Still could be, if I hadn't loused them up."

"Oh, please, Mr. Garnett," Roarke said, nudging them back into a stroll, "you mustn't be too hard on yourself."

"Well, I'm to blame for the divorce," Garnett pointed out. "I'm not even gonna contest it." Yet Roarke detected sadness in his resignation.

"Perhaps it would be best," he said thoughtfully, "if you left the island today, and did not see this young woman again."

"Well, I've thought of that too," Garnett admitted, "but I can't. I _have_ to see her again." Roarke nodded, and Garnett sighed faintly. "Well, you have the reputation for wisdom and understanding. Can you help me?"

"I will try, Mr. Garnett. I cannot promise you that I will succeed, but…I will try."

"Thank you," Garnett said softly, nodded and left. Roarke watched him go, nodding slightly to himself. Then he pulled out his gold pocket watch to check the time; it was getting close to the hour he had set to meet Carla Baines in his office.

Leslie had made her phone calls as soon as she returned, but the only one who was able to come to the party was Michiko. "I know about Petie Malikoa," she had said. "At least once or twice, my father had to scare some sense into him after he got into some really nasty fights, back in fourth or fifth grade, I forget which. So Mr. Roarke thinks he and his sisters might have to leave the island with Mr. John? That's too bad—Petie and the girls have been here their whole lives. They were born here."

"It's hard to have to move," Leslie agreed, recalling the moves she herself had made. "But there's more to the story that I can't really tell you right now. I'm glad you can come—you're the only one of the girls who can."

Michiko had arranged to come over to the main house about fifteen minutes before it was time to leave, so that she could go to the party with Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie; and just as Leslie hung up the phone, the door opened and Roarke entered with Carla Baines—still dressed in the boa-trimmed yellow shortie robe she had nearly doffed for a magazine photograph and looking vaguely defiant. She stopped at the top of the steps and peered around at Roarke. "What's bothering you, Mr. Roarke?" she wanted to know.

"What do you think—Mrs. Garnett?" he riposted deliberately.

Carla—or rather, Marcia Garnett—gave him a look of mingled smugness and admiration. "So you know I'm Hal's wife."

Roarke stepped down into the study. "Oh, I knew that before you arrived. It is my business to know everything about our guests. Please have a seat, won't you?"

Only then did Marcia deign to come into the room herself, with a wicked little strut that had Leslie staring. "Then you must know how much I'm enjoying myself," she remarked jauntily, dropping into a chair and neatly flipping her left leg over her right. "It's a perfectly wonderful fantasy."

"Mrs. Garnett, your fantasy was to be the world's most desirable woman, for one weekend. But to break his heart? To punish him? I should have never granted your application. Vengeance is not the purpose of Fantasy Island."

Marcia got to her feet, silent for a moment, and Leslie watched, quite sure from the woman's expression that she wasn't the slightest bit apologetic. Pausing at the corner of the desk and turning to Roarke as if Leslie didn't exist at all, Marcia asked quietly, "Mr. Roarke, do you remember what I looked like when I arrived here yesterday?" He nodded once or twice. "Not bad for a middle-aged mother and wife…" Marcia tossed her head a little as if in defiance, before adding bitterly, "…who's been through so much pain with that man. All the years when he was struggling to make it, I held him when he cried. I reassured him when he was frightened. Now, back home, when I look in the mirror, I'm the one that's frightened. Who will hold me, Mr. Roarke?"

"The divorce was your idea, Mrs. Garnett," he reminded her quietly.

"A formality," she flung back before sauntering toward the steps. "Actually, it'll be only a half-divorce." She turned to glare at Roarke, but her voice sounded close to tears when she said, "I belonged to Hal, but he never belonged to me." She clucked her tongue in self-disgust and came back to sit down again. "I should've bought stock in his magazine and all his other business ventures. I'd have gotten a bigger piece of Hal Garnett's action."

"You came here to get even," Roarke observed, taking the chair she had vacated a minute or two before, "and you are succeeding, Mrs. Garnett. Your husband is not just shocked and confused, he is seriously depressed."

Marcia stared at him. "Honestly?"

"Honestly," Roarke assured her.

For the first time she seemed taken aback. "I didn't realize Hal was so sensitive." She glanced at Leslie, who continued to watch in avid silence, then sighed. "Okay, what do I do to get out of this fouled-up fantasy? Go back in the swimming pool?"

"You are a finalist in the beauty contest," Roarke pointed out. "If you were to disappear now, it would cause a great hue and cry; there is no telling what effect that might have on your husband. It could totally destroy him, you know."

"I'll stay away from him," Marcia decided, voice subdued. She arose in tandem with Roarke. "I won't even talk to him. I promise." With that, she turned and departed the study without looking back.

"Wow," said Leslie after they'd heard the outer door close. "Holy cow, Mr. Roarke. So that's what she's up to! Are you serious when you say Mr. Garnett's depressed?"

"He's still deeply in love with his wife, Leslie," Roarke said, "but he has all but given up. He told me he refuses to contest the divorce and blames himself for it."

"Wow," said Leslie again. She stared at the envelopes in her hands, absently running her thumb along their edges, before looking up at him. "D'you think she'll keep her promise about not even talking to Mr. Garnett?"

Roarke smiled. "If it is at all within her power, she will. But something tells me she has less control over the situation than she thinks she does. Now tell me…were you able to talk any of your friends into coming to the party for Major Doyle?"

"Just Michiko. The others said they can't come, but Michiko remembers Petie from back in elementary school. She's coming over here about fifteen minutes before we have to leave, so that she'll be in plenty of time."

"Good," Roarke said and smiled. "I'm sure Petie will appreciate your efforts."


	9. Chapter 9

§ § § - February 1, 1981

It had been a delicious luau and everyone was full; now several of the younger children, including the two Malikoa girls, were chasing Tattoo back and forth across the sand, while the adults, Leslie, Michiko and Petie gathered around the fire singing assorted songs. Major Doyle taught them a song he had learned in Africa, which at first Leslie and Michiko weren't sure about. "The words are simple," said Petie, a slender, wiry boy not far from his sixteenth birthday. "It takes maybe ten seconds to learn, right?" He grinned at the major.

"Right," Doyle said and grinned back. "Tell you girls what, we'll run through a round and then you can join in. How's that?"

"Okay," Leslie agreed, and Michiko nodded. The others immediately broke into song: _"See him there, the Zulu warrior / See him there, the Zulu chief, chief, chief / See him there, the Zulu warrior / See him there, the Zulu chief, chief, chief."_ This was followed by a series of nonsense words that made both girls laugh, but they duly joined in on the next round and found that Petie had been right; it was very easy to learn.

They'd gone through some half a dozen rounds of the tune, with Leslie and Michiko sometimes giggling uncontrollably and eliciting grins from Roarke, Petie and Doyle, when in the middle of the seventh go-round, Doyle's eyes fixed on something in the distance and he stopped singing, his face losing its cheer. He arose and started away across the sand; the others watched him go, and the song faded into silence. Leslie leaned around Roarke to see what was happening, and saw a figure standing in the trees on the slope of the mountain at the back edge of the beach. Michiko peered past her, and the two girls then looked at each other, Michiko in bewilderment and Leslie worried. She caught sight of Petie's face; it too had lost all the joy of the moment.

Silence gripped them all as they watched Doyle go to a dark wicker trunk almost hidden under a bush, snap it open and extract a handgun, grimly examining it. Roarke had stood up to better see what was transpiring, and when Petie moved forward, he stopped the boy. "No, Petie," he said softly. "You must stay here and care for the others. In his absence, you are the man of the house."

"I don't get this," Michiko whispered to Leslie. "What's happening?"

"I'm not sure," Leslie mumbled, though she did have some inkling of what lay ahead. The gun told its own story. She watched Petie reluctantly sink back into a seated position under the gentle pressure of Roarke's hand on his shoulder.

Everyone's attention returned to Doyle while he rose, stuck the gun in the waistband of his pants and strode deliberately in the direction of the waiting man on the slope. As if a signal had been given, the other man plowed forward, skidding a little down toward the small inlet beside the party site and striding along the bank to meet Doyle.

Leslie and Michiko both got up and went to stand beside Roarke. "That Keating guy, or I mean, that Morrison guy," Leslie murmured to her guardian. "The bounty hunter…" Roarke looked at her, and she gasped, reading his expression. "You're going to let him—?"

"I must, Leslie," Roarke said quietly. He caught Michiko's apprehensive look from behind her, but to her credit, the petite Japanese girl said nothing, merely stood where she was and waited for further instructions. Roarke put a hand on Leslie's shoulder, as much to hold her in place as to reassure her.

They could hear voices in the near distance now. "Hey, you're armed. That makes things simpler." It was Jed Morrison, alias William Keating.

Doyle responded, "I'm gonna make just one try at this, Jed. Turn around and walk away with your hands showing. Then take the first plane out."

"Why would I wanna do that?" Morrison's voice was mocking.

"I don't want to kill you," Doyle insisted.

By then Roarke, with Leslie and Michiko stubbornly behind him, had moved up the nearby path Doyle had taken and was standing some distance away, within sight of a wooden bridge that spanned the inlet. Morrison and Doyle stood one on either end. Footsteps pounded up the path and they turned to see a frantic Petie Malikoa racing toward them. "Mr. Roarke, make them stop!" he cried, begging. "Please make them stop!"

Roarke seized his shoulders and halted him. "I'm sorry, Petie, I cannot interfere," he said urgently. "Petie—look into my eyes."

The two girls looked nervously at each other as Roarke turned Petie's head to face him. "The man you know as Mr. John is a gentle, loving man—but that was not always so. Look at him, Petie. Look closely at him."

Bewildered and scared, Petie slowly turned to stare at the man who had rescued him and his little sisters from their destitute, orphaned state; Leslie and Michiko looked too, and as if by magic, before their eyes the image of Petie's benevolent caretaker dissolved into images of the fierce-faced mercenary, prowling through some foreign jungle while bombs fell and shrapnel burst all around him. Michiko gasped aloud; Leslie blinked hard, and the image shimmered back into reality. Petie stood deathly still for another few seconds, then turned back to Roarke, and Leslie knew he'd seen it too.

"Now you understand," Roarke explained gently. "It is as though the man you just saw, the dedicated leader of mercenaries, died nine years ago; but the man you call Mr. John must answer for what he did."

Dazed, Petie turned again to stare, and the girls' eyes were inexorably drawn to the tableau playing out on the bridge. "That's far enough," Morrison warned, watching Doyle slowly advance across the bridge.

"Go home, Jed. Just go home," Doyle said, still moving.

Morrison watched for another three or four footsteps, three or four heartbeats—then he dropped into a crouch and began to fire, all in a split second. Doyle instantly fired back, but Morrison had a better gun and more ammunition, and suddenly Doyle grunted aloud and clutched his abdomen. _"No!"_ Petie shouted, and Roarke had to grab him and hang on hard, while they all helplessly watched Doyle's body break through the railing and land in the water with a quiet splash, a couple of lengths of lumber following him in.

Shocked, Leslie and Michiko stood frozen, eyes glued to the broken bridge railing. Petie began to cry, trying to hide his tears, but too overcome with grief; Roarke held him as he would have done with Leslie, stroking his hair once or twice, trying to give some comfort. He glanced at the girls, who couldn't move.

At the far end of the bridge, Jed Morrison lowered his gun and stood up, nodding a couple of times in self-satisfaction. Roarke watched, silent; Petie, wallowing in grief, never even looked up, as if unaware Morrison existed any longer. Michiko was trembling and her breathing was harsh, fast and shallow. Leslie, who might have erupted in a screaming rage, was too stunned and horrified to move or speak. Morrison cast them all one curious glance, then flipped them a mocking salute and walked calmly off the bridge, letting the jungle swallow him.

‡ ‡ ‡

With Petie and his sisters ensconced in the spare room at the main house for the night, Roarke found it necessary to cajole a still-stunned Leslie into coming with him to see the conclusion of the Garnett fantasy. "I can't believe it, Mr. Roarke," she said in a small voice, gazing at him, seeing him as if through a haze. "I saw that guy shoot Major Doyle in cold blood and then just walk away like he'd done the world a big favor. I saw him shoot him. He shot him right to _death_, Mr. Roarke." She shook her head continuously, as if she had no means by which to control her own muscles.

Roarke gathered her into his embrace; she was glad of it, for she felt cold for some reason. Dimly she suspected she was in for another nightmare that night; not since she'd witnessed Michael Hamilton's murder of her mother and sisters had she been visited by such a tragedy, and she had the same feeling now as she'd had then: dazed disbelief, physical chills, a sense of displacement and unreality, as though she were watching herself on a movie screen. But this time a small spark of outrage began to flare into life, and she muttered against Roarke's shoulder, "I hope that jerk's proud of himself."

At this Roarke set her back from him a little and looked directly into her eyes. "It's all right for you to be angry, Leslie," he said quietly. "But for the sake of Petie and his sisters, please, try to control yourself. They are going through much worse grief than you are right now, the same grief you felt when your family perished. You know how they're feeling at this time, so I know you'll respect their grief."

Leslie swallowed thickly, then pulled in a deep breath through her nose and nodded. "Okay," she said softly. "Okay, I promise. But…" She blinked a few times and then met his gaze. "I hope you kicked that jerk off the island."

Roarke quirked a quick smile at her. "It wasn't necessary," he said dryly. "Morrison departed willingly and under his own power immediately after shooting Major Doyle."

"Don't ever let him come back here, Mr. Roarke, please," she begged.

"He'll have no more reason to come back," he assured her. "Now, though I realize you may find this cold, we do have other business to attend to; so if you will, please come with me so that we may watch while Tattoo announces the contest winner."

Because of the delay, they were barely in time for the announcements, and had to take a small table in the very back of the open-air floor at the same moment Hal Garnett came out on the stage to hand Tattoo an envelope. Marcia Garnett, still in the guise of Carla Baines, and two other pretty young women, all dressed in swimsuits, stood upstage watching. Tattoo accepted the envelope and turned to the microphone in front of him. "Thank you very much. Ladies and gentlemen," he said while Garnett retreated to stand near the three waiting finalists, "here are the final results. The third-place winner is…Trish Hobbs!"

"Oh, that's wonderful!" said someone, and the audience broke into applause; but the pretty blonde had an expression that was anything but happy. To everyone's surprise, she headed for Hal Garnett and spat at him, "Third? You promised me I'd win!" So saying, she stomped firmly on his foot with one stiletto heel and stalked off the stage. Garnett gasped in pain and hopped on the other foot for a couple of seconds, cradling the injured one.

Tattoo faced the laughing audience and said hastily, "I—I'm sorry, she seems to be a little disappointed." Roarke and Leslie looked at each other in amused surprise; the remark definitely qualified as an understatement! But Tattoo, like a true showman, pushed forward. "Our, uh…our second-place winner is…Carla Baines!"

Even from where they sat, Roarke and Leslie could see Marcia Garnett's downcast expression, but fortunately she didn't follow Trish Hobbs' example, instead smiling gamely. Tattoo went on, "And therefore our winner is Lauren Mercy." The remaining blonde on the stage exploded into a frenzy of overjoyment, and in seconds was surrounded by her fellow contestants, congratulating her. Tattoo, holding a bouquet of roses tied together with a red ribbon, managed to squirm his way into the crowd to give them to the winner, and headed offstage with most of the others while the winner went to the end of the catwalk to breathlessly acknowledge the accolades.

Roarke and Leslie made their leisurely way toward the stage and around to the wings, both watching all the while as Hal Garnett forcibly stopped the woman he knew as Carla Baines and spoke earnestly with her. Not till they were just shy of the stage did they finally get within earshot, in time to hear her say, "…take me walking in the woods and pick me a wildflower that matches my eyes?"

"How did you know that?" Garnett asked.

She grinned. "How do you think, Prince Harold?"

Garnett reared back. "Prince! No one ever called me that but Marcia!"

"How could anyone else know about those things?" she asked gently, still smiling.

"This is impossible!" he blurted, hanging onto her as if afraid she might dissolve like talcum powder in the breeze. "Oh, I've lost my mind. I have. It's gone."

"No, Mr. Garnett," Roarke chose that moment to intervene, while Leslie stood watching them and grinning in spite of herself. "Amazing as it may seem, this young lady is indeed Mrs. Marcia Garnett, your wife. She has quite literally discovered the Fountain of Youth."

"Wh…" Garnett began, turning to Marcia. "It's a miracle."

"Well…the news isn't all that good, darling," Marcia informed him ruefully. "At midnight I turn back into a pumpkin."

"Uh, what your wife actually means, Mr. Garnett, is that her fantasy to become the most desirable woman in the world is about to end. And she's preparing to become, once again, a charming lady approaching middle age," Roarke explained.

"Well, that's fine with me," Garnett said firmly, then turned to Marcia and added, "if I can just persuade you to cancel that divorce."

She smiled seductively up at him. "So persuade me." Their heads drifted toward each other and they tilted their faces; but just before their lips met, Roarke broke in, "However…"

Leslie blinked at him, startled, then slammed both hands over her mouth, trying to hold back the burst of laughter that boiled out of her. The Garnetts turned to Roarke with a sort of mild accusation in their eyes.

"There is a slight technical hitch, I might say," Roarke continued, a bit apologetically.

"Something's gone wrong, Mr. Roarke?" Marcia asked with apprehension.

Roarke climbed onto the stage while Leslie hung back, still wrestling with her giggles. "Well," he said, "that depends on your point of view. It would seem that someone, I'm not exactly certain who, miscalculated." This renewed Leslie's mirth, for she was well aware that Roarke was the "someone" in question but had managed to neatly exonerate himself of any evident wrongdoing. "I am afraid that the effects of the fountain will not wear off at the close of this weekend as we all anticipated."

"They won't? Then when will they?" Garnett asked.

"Never," Roarke said bluntly. "Your wife, metabolically speaking, will be 21 years of age today—but, from this time forward, she will age naturally."

Marcia let out a delighted laugh. "Oh, wonderful!"

"Wonderful! What's so wonderful?" Garnett shot back indignantly. "Listen, I'm not a kid anymore, and I'm damned sick of running around with kids!"

"Oh, I never was all that active, Hal," Marcia scoffed; then her expression softened and she added, "But maybe I've got some time to do some catching up."

Hal turned to Roarke, released his wife and spoke in consternation. "Mr. Roarke, young studs are gonna be chasing my wife all over the place—how'm I ever gonna compete?" All Roarke could do was shake his head sympathetically.

Marcia remarked, "That's a good question. What'd you always call it?…um, an occupational hazard?"

Garnett sputtered, "Marcia, that's not fair!" To Roarke: "Mr. Roarke…I am _finally_ ready to settle down, and…look at her!"

"It is indeed a pleasure to do so," Roarke commented, "and I certainly see your problem, Mr. Garnett." He took the man aside and cautioned low, "I suggest that from now on, you become an extremely attentive husband."

Garnett chewed on that idea for a second or two as if he'd never heard of any such thing in his entire life; he peered at Marcia, who nodded, and then back at Roarke, who gave him a firm nod of his own. Garnett looked dubious; Leslie sneaked away, step by step, till she was certain she was far enough away to burst out laughing at last.

§ § § - February 2, 1981

The reunited Garnetts stepped out of the rover and Hal shook hands with their host. "We're really very grateful, Mr. Roarke," he said.

"I am delighted," Roarke said with a broad smile.

"Even though I didn't really get to be the world's most desirable woman," said Marcia.

"Oh, but you are, Mrs. Garnett—at least to one man," Roarke pointed out.

Tattoo grinned. "Two men, boss! Mrs. Garnett, can I take your picture, please?"

While Marcia readily agreed, Roarke remarked to Garnett, "Well, your rather unexpected reunion turned out successfully after all."

"Yeah, instead of a divorce, a second honeymoon. We're going on a world cruise."

"Oh wow," Leslie said enviously, attention diverted from Tattoo and his camera, which had just spit out a photo that would develop in a couple of minutes or so. "A cruise around the world! I'd love to do that someday."

"Maybe you will, Leslie," Garnett said with a grin. "I hope you get to."

"Indeed," Roarke said, "and what about _Erotic_ magazine, your business empire?"

The Garnetts looked at each other, and he drew in a slow breath and announced, "I'm, uh…selling the magazine to Mark." They took in Marcia's stunned look. "He's younger; he has the energy to deal with all those occupational hazards."

"I see," said Roarke, greatly amused. With that, they all shook hands and made their farewells; as Roarke and Leslie watched the Garnetts head for the plane, Tattoo lifted his picture to look at it and then gasped.

"Boss, the picture!" he blurted.

"Yes?" Roarke prompted. Leslie peered at the shot and blinked in amazement.

"Mrs. Garnett—she looks the same as when she arrived," Tattoo exclaimed. It was true; in the photo Marcia Garnett was wearing the same glasses and short, bouffant-type hairstyle she'd sported when she stepped off the plane Saturday, though she was clad in the clothes she had on right this moment.

"To whom, Tattoo?" Roarke asked. "To you? To me? To the camera? To the rest of the world? However, one thing is certain: Mrs. Garnett will remain forever beautiful in the watchful eyes of her adoring husband." He returned the Garnetts' waves.

Tattoo gave him a perplexed stare. "You're making me confused."

"That's odd," said Roarke. "It's perfectly clear to me." Leslie grinned at his innocent expression while he watched the Garnetts board the plane. Tattoo sighed, then handed the camera to one of the young women populating the dock. "Let's go, boss."

"Not just yet, Tattoo. We have to say goodbye to another guest—Major Doyle."

Leslie gasped. "But Mr. Roarke, he's dead! What're you getting at? That jerk Keating, or Morrison, or whoever he was, shot him!"

Roarke smiled at her. "He was only wounded, Leslie. You see, by a strange coincidence, the bridge railing broke at the precise moment that Mr. Keating opened fire, thereby allowing the major to disappear from view and swim downstream."

"Why didn't you say anything, then?" Leslie asked.

"Because I promised Mr. Doyle I would tell no one—except you and Tattoo, now. You see, Mr. Keating flew home yesterday believing his fantasy had been fulfilled. He came here to shoot the Mad Major; and he did, didn't he?"

Leslie pondered this for a few seconds, then smiled reluctantly. "Yeah, I guess he did, when you look at it a certain way. He never did say in so many words that he meant to kill Major Doyle."

Roarke nodded. "And as a result, Mr. Doyle has finally found peace, because he's now believed to be dead by all the enemies who might otherwise pursue him."

"Very clever," Tattoo said approvingly. "Very, very clever, boss." Roarke made an _it's nothing_ gesture, and just then a rover pulled into view and discharged Major Kelvin Doyle, with Petie Malikoa and his two younger sisters. Doyle, despite now having to use a cane to get around, checked dotingly on all three of his charges as they gathered around him.

"Well, Major Doyle," Roarke said, "how do you feel?"

"Sad, Mr. Roarke—sad, because I have to leave Fantasy Island."

"Why does the major have to leave?" Tattoo asked in surprise. Leslie tipped her head questioningly to one side; Tattoo had voiced her own thoughts.

"Because, Tattoo, others will be after me—others like Jed Morrison."

"Where'll you go?" Leslie asked.

"I'm sure somewhere out there, there's an island where nobody knows Kelvin Doyle," the major said with gentle resignation.

"Where we can be together, and make another home," Petie added, "like a real family." He smiled at Doyle.

"Well, goodbye, Mr. Roarke," Doyle murmured.

"Goodbye," Roarke replied. "Fantasy Island is sorry to lose such a good, law-abiding citizen." Tattoo nodded agreement.

"We're gonna miss you at school, Petie," Leslie ventured shyly.

Petie paused and regarded her, then suddenly smiled, his natural reserve dissolving for just a moment. "Hey, thanks, Leslie," he said. "I'm glad I knew you. Tell your friend Michiko thanks for coming to the party, too."

"I will," Leslie promised, and shook Petie's hand when he offered it. They waved the little family to the plane dock, and Leslie shoved her hands into her skirt pockets, thinking over all she would have to tell her friends at lunch later that day.

§ § § - April 20, 2007

"Oh, so that's what happened to Petie Malikoa," said Diane, sounding enlightened. "I always wondered. He was a nice kid, just very quiet and serious."

"I used to think he was a bully," Lauren admitted. "He picked on my sister once and I had to give him what-for, not that it really did any good. I guess it took your dad to get him back on the straight-and-narrow, Michiko."

"Not really," Michiko said softly. "I'd like to think my father had a hand in it, but not till Petie and his sisters went to live with Major Doyle did he get back on track. Thanks for the sentiment, though, Lauren." Lauren smiled at her.

"Has he ever been back, that anybody knows of?" Camille wondered.

"I don't think so," Leslie mused. "We've certainly never seen him. But wherever he is, I hope he and his sisters are doing well…and Major Doyle too."

There was a pause while they thought about the story Roarke and Leslie had just told; then Christian cleared his throat. "Well, so what's next? There seems to be something of a theme to these stories—unusual problems you faced in granting fantasies, Mr. Roarke. Were there any others that you particularly recall?"

"One does come to mind," Roarke said. "Leslie did enjoy the one fantasy, despite the trouble it caused for both me and the man who requested it; but I think the other was rather frightening for her, wasn't it, Leslie?"

"Well, at least I didn't have to witness someone being shot," Leslie said, rolling her eyes, and the others chuckled. "For a while there, though, I thought I would. By the way, Father, wasn't that the weekend you gave Julie a basketful of kittens and told her to find them new homes?"

Roarke laughed. "So it was. Good memory, Leslie."

She grinned and admitted, "I remembered it because I kept wishing I could have taken one home. Anyway, here's what happened…"


	10. Chapter 10

§ § § - January 23, 1982

Having sent Julie off with the kittens whose mother she had previously failed to find a home for, Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie set off for the plane dock, where their first guest turned out to be someone very recognizable. Tattoo instantly knew who the blonde woman in the cowboy hat, denim skirt and bright-red masculine-styled shirt was. "Oh, I know that lady. She's Sara Jean Rawlins."

"Quite right, Tattoo," Roarke said. Leslie, who wasn't into country music at all, gave Tattoo an impressed look.

"Who is that man with her?" Tattoo asked.

"Her manager, Mr. Sam Treacher. Ms. Rawlins traveled the country-western circuit for some years with a very gifted young guitarist; they were very much in love. His name was Billy Williams."

Tattoo looked thoughtful. "Hmm…I remember him. He died in an automobile accident," he mused.

"Yes, Tattoo. And now she is here to record a new song that both she and her manager feel will be her biggest hit. Ms. Rawlins' fantasy…" He paused long enough to get Tattoo's and Leslie's full attention, then concluded, "…is to have Billy Williams accompany her on the recording session."

"But how could he?" Leslie protested, astounded. "I mean, after all, he's dead!"

Roarke merely allowed his gaze to settle on the country singer, without moving a muscle or changing expression. Tattoo and Leslie looked at each other, then shifted their attention when they noticed Roarke shift his stance. The guest this time was a somewhat older man, somewhere in his late forties or early fifties, wearing a powder-blue suit and carrying a leather-bound tome in one hand. "Who's that, boss? I hope he didn't come here to bury his nose in a book."

"Hardly, Tattoo," said Roarke, amused. "Mr. Ralph Rodgers is an English-history buff, and that book happens to be Mark Twain's _A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court_." He winked at Leslie, who was a "Connecticut Yankee" herself by birth, and she grinned.

"I get it, boss," Tattoo said. "He wants to visit Camelot."

"Close. More precisely, Mr. Rodgers' fantasy is to meet in person the legendary King Arthur himself." His expression suggested that this was going to be a fun fantasy, which suited Leslie just fine. She always enjoyed the lighter fantasies.

With that, Roarke toasted their latest guests, who all looked happy enough to be here; but there was a sadness lingering about Sara Jean Rawlins, and there was something vaguely sinister, Leslie thought, about Sam Treacher. Well, they'd find out soon enough.

‡ ‡ ‡

"Now look," Treacher was saying stridently a little over an hour later in Roarke's study, "I believe this whole business of Sara Jean comin' here, expectin' Billy Williams—a dead man—to be playin' at her recordin' session is just a whole lotta baloney."

"Sam, don't," the country singer protested plaintively. "It's my dream. It's all I have to hold on to."

"Now Sara Jean, I just don't think it's right," Treacher insisted, "him leadin' you on like this." He gestured dismissively at Roarke as he spoke.

"I am curious, Mr. Treacher, please forgive me," Roarke broke in then, looking amused at Treacher's protestations. "But which concerns you the most—Ms. Rawlins' personal feelings, or your own financial enrichment?" His gaze grew chilly as he drove home the last few words; silently Leslie cheered him on.

"Now you look here, Mr. Roarke—" Treacher ground out.

"Sam, please!" snapped Sara Jean. Treacher caught himself, and she glared him into at least a moment's submission before turning to her host. "Mr. Roarke, now that I _am_ here, what am I supposed to do now?"

"First," said Roarke, taking the chair Treacher had disdained, "do you have any questions, Ms. Rawlins?"

"Can you really make it happen, Mr. Roarke?" she asked.

"I can make it possible for Billy Williams to accompany you at your recording session. But you must listen very carefully to what I have to say. It is of great importance. You must believe—deep within yourself—that your fantasy will come true. That is the only way I can make it possible."

"I'll try real hard, Mr. Roarke," Sara Jean said solemnly.

He nodded and smiled a little. "Very well," he said, rising. "Then please proceed with your plans. Keep that faith firmly in your heart, huh?" They exchanged smiles, his of encouragement, hers of hope; then she turned and left the study. Roarke caught sight of Treacher then; the other man sighed with annoyance, but to his credit, he departed without another word. Roarke watched him go only till he'd climbed the steps to the inner foyer; then he withdrew his pocket watch to check the time before gesturing out the French shutters behind the desk. Leslie got up from her chair and accompanied Roarke and Tattoo out and down the path to the small lane where the bungalows stood.

"I really don't like that Sam Treacher," she ventured after they'd been walking a few minutes in silence.

"Neither do I," concurred Tattoo, as if relieved she'd spoken up.

Roarke glanced at them and smiled. "You may have good reason not to like him," he allowed. "The events of the weekend will bear out your suspicions, should they have merit. For now, I suggest you turn your minds to Mr. Rodgers' fantasy. I think you'll both like this one very much."

"I'm not sure how," Leslie admitted frankly. "I mean, Mr. Rodgers is the one going back in time, not us, and we won't get to see what happens and whether he actually meets King Arthur and all that. See, we were studying King Arthur a couple of months ago in my English class at school, because of the stories and legends that surround him, and Mrs. Wayborne says that he probably never really existed. So how can you send Mr. Rodgers back in time to meet a nonexistent entity?"

Roarke cast her a look askance; Tattoo riposted, "The same way he can bring forth old Greek gods and goddesses for Greek-mythology buffs to meet." Leslie shot him a dirty look, which left Roarke chuckling for most of the rest of their walk.

Ralph Rodgers, a slight, gradually balding man with a perpetually hopeful look about him, let them in with a cheerful greeting. "I can't wait to get started."

Roarke smiled. "I certainly hope your expectations are fully realized, Mr. Rodgers, and now, will you join us on the terrace, please?" He led the way out to the back of the bungalow, through the open dining area, where there was a small patio bordered on two sides by the dining-room window and the matching one in the bedroom. Most of the little corner terrace was taken up by an elegant round white table topped with smoked glass and ringed by four matching chairs. "You are, of course, familiar with the legend of Arthur's magic sword, Excalibur," he said a bit questioningly, bypassing the table and pausing in front of a large fern that partially hid a good-sized boulder.

"Oh, yes, yes, of course," Rodgers said in a somewhat halting voice, as if he were shy or trying to control a habitual stutter. "He…he pulled Excalibur from a stone…a feat no one else could accomplish…and became king of all England." His eyes lit up as he spoke and he lost his hesitancy; it was plain that this must be his favorite subject in all the world.

"Precisely," Roarke said with a smile. "Tattoo?"

Smiling broadly, Tattoo went to the fern and lifted aside the heavy frond, revealing a gold hilt. "You recognize it?" he asked Rodgers.

The guest lit up and drifted toward it. "Excalibur!" he breathed.

"Yes, Mr. Rodgers, it is Excalibur…and if you can draw it from that stone, your fantasy will begin." Roarke smiled.

Rodgers' face lit up even more and he took a deep breath, shooting all three of them a few anticipatory glances before venturing to the rock, making a production out of getting a good grip on the sword handle, and tugging. At first he grunted softly, trying to overcome the resistance the sword gave him; but then all at once it slid out of the rock, and as it did, there was a brilliant golden flash and a cloud of white smoke. Both man and sword vanished completely, leaving silence.

"Well, I guess that's it," Leslie said a little wistfully.

Neither Roarke nor Tattoo had time to react before there was another flash, this one smokeless, and Rodgers stood before them again, looking startled. "What happened?"

As if in response, still another flash, accompanied by a sort of minor booming sound, made all four of them turn to find themselves staring at a gray-haired man in a full suit of armor, sans helmet. He stared down at himself and glanced around, then snarled, "Merlin, you muddlehead!" in an aristocratic British accent. "What have you done now?"

Tattoo's eyes grew wide and he peered at Roarke. "Uh-oh, boss!" he exclaimed.

Roarke hurriedly threw him a quelling look and warned, "Sh!"

The armor-clad man glared at Roarke. "What manner of sorcery is this? Who are you?" Then he saw Rodgers, still standing there with the upraised sword, and got even angrier. "Who dares to touch my sword?" he demanded, striding toward the alarmed Rodgers, who hastily turned it blade-down and handed it over.

"Uh, here-here you are, I…" Rodgers gave up and turned to Roarke in bewilderment. "What happened? I was there, I saw Camelot. All of a sudden I'm back, with him!"

Roarke approached him while Leslie and Tattoo watched avidly. "I'm sorry. Somehow the polarity reversed itself." He demonstrated with palms facing each other before drawing them close and past each other, crossing his wrists. The armored man sheathed the sword with a loud clang and began to pace. Roarke went right on talking. "No harm done! Your fantasy is, after all, to meet King Arthur—and here he is!" Leslie took a second, harder look at the newcomer. _That_ was King Arthur? Why was he wearing armor instead of a crown and royal robes trimmed in fur?

Rodgers began to protest, but Roarke silently shushed him and nodded reassuringly, then turned to the king and said expansively, "Your Majesty! I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island." He bowed, making Leslie wonder if she should curtsy, even though Tattoo simply stood there gazing on in fascination.

"I am Arthur, king of all England!" their latest guest snapped out, and instantly Roarke, Tattoo and Rodgers lowered their heads in deference. Leslie gasped and belatedly curtsied; though she knew it was a clumsy movement, she felt it better not to draw undue attention to herself. She must have succeeded, for Arthur blustered on, "I haven't time to dally. I have scheduled a meeting of the Round Table, and that cursed Lancelot will be romancing Guinevere, my queen!"

Rodgers hastened forward, trying to mollify him. "I-I'm afraid it's all my fault," he blurted, grasping Arthur's arm, then just as hurriedly releasing it when the king glared at him. Rodgers composed himself and gazed reverently at Arthur. "But knowing how things turned out, I think you'd be better off here."

"I am better off when I am where I wish to be, knave," the king bit out, then looked hard at Roarke. "I will find a horse, to take me from your island—back to Camelot!" Having delivered this announcement, he strode away into the nearby jungle.

Rodgers' head swiveled back and forth between Arthur and Roarke several times before he decided to confront the latter and said, more or less firmly, "This-this-this…this isn't what I wanted. See, I was thinking of—of knights, and ladies, and Camelot."

Roarke corrected him, "Your fantasy was to meet King Arthur, and you have done so."

"Can…can we start over?" Rodgers wheedled hopefully. Leslie stifled a giggle.

"May I point out that, until I can return him to his Camelot, his safety is your responsibility," Roarke told him. "Now I would suggest you get started immediately." He gestured after the departed Arthur.

"My responsibility!" breathed Rodgers in disbelief, but he didn't argue the point; he did throw several uncertain glances between Roarke and the vanished king, then finally scuttled away into the foliage in Arthur's wake.

"Oh boy," murmured Leslie. Roarke only partially managed to tamp down a smile, but when Tattoo stared up at him with upraised hands and a _what're we gonna do?_ look, he just shook his head and smiled as if to reassure him.

Tattoo looked at Leslie, who made a face. "I wouldn't be so sure," she said. "Imagine all the trouble he could get into."

"Well, you heard the boss," Tattoo said with a fatalistic shrug. "It's not our problem, it's Mr. Rodgers'."

"That doesn't mean we couldn't get complaints from people about him," Leslie said.

Roarke smiled. "Wait and see, Leslie. If Mr. Rodgers truly wishes his fantasy to play out as he originally envisioned it—or at least, in a manner fairly close to that—he'll work very hard to be sure it does so, and to minimize the inconveniences." He suddenly seemed to think of something and checked his pocket watch. "We need to make a few rounds, and I'm overdue already. We'll have lunch, and then we will drop in on Ms. Rawlins."

Sara Jean Rawlins had commandeered the theater in Amberville for her rehearsals, so that was where Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo went after the noon meal. They settled in seats in the first row; Sara Jean was at a microphone, and Sam Treacher sat nearby wearing a pair of headphones and following Sara Jean with a copy of the song's sheet music. A piano stood at stage right. After some conferring, they began the rehearsal; the song turned out to be a slow, melancholy piece, made all the sadder by Sara Jean's voice, which seemed faintly tinged with some lingering sorrow. Tattoo listened raptly; Leslie, feeling oddly depressed by the song in some way, slouched a little in her chair, compressing her lips.

Sara Jean began to get visibly lost in the tune, gazing into space as she sang, glancing around her as if playing to an invisible audience. At one point, as she was holding a note, her eyes drifted up toward the rafters—and then she broke the note and gasped so loudly it echoed throughout the entire theater, covering her mouth with one hand and backing away from the microphone. All eyes followed her gaze; on a catwalk high over the stage stood a man with a horribly disfigured face, holding a large stage light by a rope and clearly preparing to drop it.

Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie bolted out of their seats; Roarke managed to spring out ahead and leaped onto the stage just as Sam Treacher finally seemed to sense something was wrong and looked around, then up. The second his gaze rose, the man on the catwalk released the stage light; Roarke seized Treacher's arm, scattering sheet music everywhere, and yanked him out of the way a mere half-second before the light crashed onto the stage, smashing the chair Treacher had just been sitting in. Sara Jean screamed and stumbled back into the scenery behind her.

They heard footsteps overhead, and Roarke looked up just in time to see the figure on the catwalk disappear off one end. Tattoo hurried over to Sara Jean; Leslie stood at the edge of the stage, staring in shock at the broken chair and the damaged light.

Roarke crossed the stage to Sara Jean and embraced her for a moment; she dissolved into frightened tears. "His-his face," she sobbed. "It was horrible! Mr. Roarke, who was that, and why would he do such a thing?"

Roarke shook his head, glancing overhead once more, then spent a couple of minutes calming Sara Jean down before turning to Treacher, who for once looked decidedly shaken. "Do you wish to stop rehearsal for now, and take a break?" he asked.

Treacher nodded, to Leslie's surprise. "Yeah, I think it's a good time to stop awhile," he muttered, tossing a skittish glance at the remains of his chair. "C'mon, Sara Jean, I think you better come on back to your bungalow. C'mon back with me, an' we'll talk about what we wanna do with this song."

"What song is that?" Leslie ventured, partially in the hope of restoring a somewhat more normal mood, partially because she was actually curious.

Sara Jean brushed at her tear-streaked face and thanked Roarke in a low tone before turning to Leslie, visibly trying to pull herself together. "It's called 'Shadow Games'," she said. "It was written by a young songwriter down in Nashville—Sam bought it from him. I heard later he drowned in the bottle. Somethin' about the words and the melody line…well, they make me think of Billy Williams." She winced and hung her head. "Brings back a lotta memories…some good, some bad. But I just had to record that song."

Leslie nodded. "Oh. Is that why you want Mr. Williams to record it with you?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Sara Jean murmured. "I guess it is." She dragged in a long breath and lifted her head, letting it fall back for a few seconds before drawing herself erect and giving Leslie a forced little smile. "If it ain't a hit, it'd be just a cryin' shame. Song's too good not to be a hit."

"What I heard of it sounded good," Leslie offered shyly.

Sara Jean actually laughed. "You don't have to make nice on my account, Leslie," she said. "I saw you out there, I know you're not really into country music." Leslie's face heated up instantly, and she ducked her head, deeply embarrassed. Sara Jean put a hand on her shoulder. "Not everybody is, and that's okay."

Leslie looked up, cheeks afire. "No, seriously," she said, miserable. "I honestly think it's a good song. You have a really pretty voice. Just right for country…sad and wistful." Now mortified at her own words, she let her head fall again and half turned away. "Oh, geez, will somebody get me out of here before I start eating my own foot?"

At that everyone laughed, and several hands landed on her shoulder, patting. "I think it's time we left Ms. Rawlins to take a break and calm herself for a time," Roarke said. "I will check in on you again later, if that's all right."

"That's fine, Mr. Roarke, thank you," Sara Jean said, and with that Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo departed the theater. The breeze felt good on Leslie's hot face, and she trudged along behind her guardian and his assistant, hoping without much conviction that they'd let the incident pass without comment.

Sure enough, Tattoo teased her, "So that's your idea of a compliment?" Leslie stopped short on the sidewalk and covered her face with her hands.

Roarke chucked. "I think that'll be enough, Tattoo," he said. "The poor girl is embarrassed enough already, don't you think? By the way, Leslie, I saw Ms. Rawlins' face while she was talking to you, and believe me, she appreciated your comments, however clumsily delivered you may think they were."

"I'll probably never live it down," Leslie grumbled. "Can't we go home so I can do something else and get my mind off this?"

"If you insist," said Roarke, laughing. "Perhaps you'd do me a favor and come to the pool with me so that we can check to be certain the bar there is well stocked and that our vacationers are happy."

It was at the pool that they met Ralph Rodgers, alone and looking a bit disillusioned. He was standing near a table staring into the sky, frowning and shaking his head. Roarke led the way over to him and inquired, "Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Rodgers?"

Rodgers started violently and shook his head so hard Leslie was afraid it would fly right off his neck. "Oh, Mr. Roarke…didn't see you there," he said and favored Leslie with a sheepish smile. "Hi there, Leslie."

"Hi, Mr. Rodgers," she said. "Where's King Arthur?"

"Got mad at something I said, then rode off somewhere and left me in the lurch, without even a horse to ride. I had a feeling if I tried to talk to him or even keep an eye on him, he'd just find some way to throw me into a dungeon somewhere." Roarke and Leslie looked at each other with amused smiles, while Rodgers sighed and shoved his hands into his pants pockets. "He's nothing like I thought he'd be. King Arthur—he's vain, he's stubborn, he's…"

Rodgers would have gone on, but Roarke broke in. "Oh, now, come, Mr. Rodgers, you're speaking of King Arthur, your idol! Why, you must remember he's a stranger in a strange land."

"Strange," Rodgers repeated, nodding and eyeing him. "That's the word."

"You'd have been just as much a stranger in a strange land in Camelot," Leslie said.

"Not so much," Rodgers protested vehemently. "I've read everything I can find about Camelot and all its denizens, and let me tell you, I'd have been prepared!" He snorted. "With him here, instead of me there, well…this whole thing's just going right down the drain."

"Well, you did the best you could," Roarke said matter-of-factly. He put a hand on Rodgers' shoulder and guided him toward the nearby table. "Now, I suggest you have a seat over here…" He pulled out a chair and Rodgers took it, while Roarke signaled at one of the young native waitresses at the bar. "…and have a nice, cool drink, huh?" A blonde decked out in bikini top, sarong skirt and lei came over and put a red cocktail napkin and some sort of potent-looking tropical decoction in front of Rodgers. "Perhaps you can strike up a conversation with someone and relax," Roarke offered genially, then headed elsewhere.

Leslie drifted uncertainly after her guardian, glancing back at Rodgers and watching him pull a cherry-bedecked toothpick out of his drink. Then Roarke called, "Mr. Rodgers…"

Rodgers had just eaten the cherry and looked around in surprise. Roarke was standing at another table at which was seated a slim blonde woman whose face boasted a sort of haughty beauty; she wore a blue tank swimsuit under an open, loosely knotted white blouse. "Relax!" He cast one glance at the blonde, as if sending a message, then signaled at Leslie and headed away from the pool.

Still throwing looks back at Rodgers and the blonde by turns, Leslie followed him. "What on earth was that all about?" she wanted to know.

Roarke smiled at her and paused near the edge of the concrete, without speaking; Leslie stopped and looked back in time to see Rodgers get up and head for the blonde at the other table, carrying his drink. "Um…do you mind?" he asked, indicating a chair.

The blonde looked up. "Oh, not at all," she said, in what sounded like a vaguely British inflection. Rodgers took the chair, looking happier.

"My name's Ralph Rodgers," he offered.

"Ah," she said, studying him. "You may call me…Gwen."

"Gwen," he echoed and shook hands with her. Roarke smiled broadly once more, then settled a hand on his ward's shoulder and guided her away.

"There's something about her…" Leslie mumbled.

"Oh?" said Roarke, very amused. "Do let me know when you've thought it all through, will you? In the meantime, I have some work to do at the house, so if you don't mind sitting for a while and going through the mail, that will be a big help to me."


	11. Chapter 11

§ § § - January 23, 1982

But within half an hour, they were interrupted again; Tattoo went to answer a knock at the door and let in Sara Jean Rawlins, while Leslie was in the middle of reading another fantasy-request letter and Roarke went through a monthly ledger with a red pen. "Boss?" Tattoo called.

"Yes?" murmured Roarke without looking up.

"Ms. Rawlins would like to speak with you," Tattoo said, making Roarke look up and behind him, capping the pen.

"Oh, by all means. Please, Ms. Rawlins, please come in." Roarke gestured to a chair, and Sara Jean and Tattoo came inside the room. "Have a seat, won't you?"

"No, that's okay," Sara Jean said. She paused and met Roarke's inquisitive gaze. "It's about one of the other guests who's staying here—Todd Porter."

"Yes?" Roarke prompted.

"Well, there's something about him, but I don't quite know what it is…"

Roarke frowned slightly. "Ms. Rawlins, I cannot tell you anything about Mr. Todd Porter. Not at this time. But there is something I will tell you. He will later prove to be of the utmost importance in fulfilling your fantasy."

"Todd? But how?"

"You must allow him to play the guitar accompaniment at your recording session." He saw Sara Jean gear up to protest and instantly cut her off. "Now, I think you will find he is quite talented.

But Sara Jean clearly didn't like this. "You promised me Billy would be playing."

"Mr. Roarke said that you must have faith," Tattoo reminded her. "You must believe. He can make your fantasy come true."

"And you have to let him do it the way he feels best," Leslie felt compelled to add.

"I've been trying very hard," Sara Jean protested.

"Then you must do what I ask," Roarke told her firmly, "by allowing Mr. Todd Porter to accompany you."

Sara Jean regarded him for a moment; then a small smile bloomed on her face, and she capitulated. "All right, Mr. Roarke."

Roarke smiled back, and Tattoo escorted Sara Jean back to the door. When she was gone, Leslie stared up at her guardian, no longer able to hold back the question that had filled her mind since Sara Jean had first spoken a minute or two before. "Who's Todd Porter, Mr. Roarke?"

Roarke, back in front of the ledger, paused, eyes on the page but face thoughtful. "He arrived here early last week and asked for accommodations in the hotel. He is very polite, soft-spoken, thoughtful. However, I sensed a great inner conflict in him. He is deeply troubled, Leslie. His only request was to meet Sara Jean Rawlins and have the chance to play guitar with her." He cleared his throat and finally focused on her. "When I researched his background a bit, I realized that it is imperative that he play on her recording."

"But why?" The question came from both Leslie and Tattoo in exact unison.

Roarke only smiled. "You'll see soon enough, both of you. Now we must get back to our work. There are still quite a few letters left, Leslie."

She blew out her breath and gave in; by now she knew better than to push her guardian when he'd decided he'd said enough. "Oh, all right," she grumbled. Roarke watched her relocate her place in the letter she'd been reading, released a silent huff of amusement and turned his attention back to the ledger.

They had another interruption a few minutes before Mana'olana came in to announce their supper was ready: the errant King Arthur, still clad in his armor, which looked somewhat the worse for wear by now. There was dried mud all over it, and Leslie could see a small round hole in the left shoulder. Where had he been all day?

"Your Majesty," Roarke said with a bow. Tattoo followed suit, and Leslie tried to curtsy from her chair, discovered it was impossible and instead jumped to her feet to execute the move. It was still clumsy, but the king didn't seem to care; in fact, he smiled at her with approval. Roarke asked, "What can we do for you?"

"I beg your boon in one small matter," Arthur said in his aristocratic, somewhat archaic speech; Leslie suspected that in fact, if it hadn't been for whatever magical-seeming translation property Roarke routinely used for people's trips back in time to places that didn't use modern English, they wouldn't be able to understand him at all. "Your young guest, Ralph. I am afraid I was rather severe with him earlier. Could you kindly tell me where I might find him? I wish to tender my apologies."

"Oh, I believe he's having dinner," Roarke said. "Leslie, if you would, please escort His Majesty to the open-air dining room and see if Mr. Rodgers is there."

"Okay," she agreed; she was hungry, but didn't mind playing guide. She dared a quick glance at the king. "Your Majesty, would you follow me, please?"

Arthur smiled broadly. "That I shall, young mistress," he said grandly, and she smiled and blushed simultaneously, getting answering grins from Roarke and Tattoo. "My gratitude to you, Mr. Roarke. Young mistress, do lead the way."

Leslie walked a few paces ahead of him, deeply self-conscious but battling curiosity; she had a few questions she wanted to ask, but she wasn't sure how Arthur would take it if she did. Fortunately, the king himself solved the problem for her. "So you are the child of Mr. Roarke, are you, then?" he inquired.

"Sort of," said Leslie. "That is, he's my guardian. I've lived here just about three years now." She explained what had happened to her family and how she had come to the island.

"Ah, I understand," Arthur said and patted her hand sympathetically. "Difficult, it is, to lose those one holds dear in this world. But you seem quite happy in this odd place."

Leslie grinned. "I am," she agreed. "I have friends here, and Mr. Roarke is a wonderful guardian. And Tattoo's like the uncle I never had. I still miss my mother and my sisters, of course, but I'm happy anyway. Um…" She hesitated, then ventured, "Your Majesty, I hope you won't mind if I ask you a question. It's been bothering me all day."

"Why, then, ask," the king urged her with an avuncular smile.

Leslie cleared her throat. "I was kind of wondering…how come you're wearing that suit of armor. What I mean is…well, you're a king, after all. I always thought kings wore luxurious clothes made of the best materials, and long red or purple robes with fur trim, and their royal crowns…and maybe carried a scepter, you know, as a symbol of their power. So, since you're a king, it just doesn't seem…well, right to see you in plain old armor."

Arthur laughed. "Ah, young mistress, I appreciate your belief that I should be clad in sumptuous attire, and in fact, for formal and state meetings, I am. But I fear that I spend far too much of my time fighting wars merely to defend my territory, and of course, the king of all England must protect himself, that he may rule his people wisely, well and long. Therefore, I wear this armor in which you now behold me." He tapped the breastplate proudly. "This very armor saved me from a thing called a 'gun', earlier this day."

"A gun!" Leslie burst out, aghast. "Who shot you, Your Majesty?"

"Some useless knave in a tavern," Arthur said, shaking his head. "That very same knave and his benighted companion are responsible for this lowly filth you see upon my person." He indicated the dried mud on his armor. "They frightened my horse, which reared and threw me, and I landed in a putrid quagmire."

There had been rain the previous day, and Leslie knew there were probably still some lingering puddles. "Oh, I'm sorry, Your Majesty."

"Fear not, young mistress, I made short work of them. They'll not dare to lay hands on me again, nor attempt my slaying with a…'gun'." The word, unfamiliar to him, came out sounding as if he were attempting a difficult foreign term, and Leslie couldn't help but grin.

"Well, that's good," she said with some relief. "Oh, here we are." They had reached the open-air dining room, a recent addition to the resort's eating establishments, and she paused to scan the patrons at the tables. "Oh, I see him. There he is now, at that table in the middle of the floor there. Do you see him, Your Majesty?"

"I believe so," Arthur said and beckoned. "Come along, young mistress." Without waiting to see whether she followed, he strode directly to the entrance, brushing aside the maitre d', who stared after him.

"Sorry, Terence," Leslie said hastily. "He's with me, don't worry about him." The maitre d' gave her a doubtful look but let it pass, and she hurried past him into the dining area, aware of the strange looks the patrons were aiming at Arthur.

"Ah, there you are, young Ralph," Arthur said genially, approaching the table where Rodgers was sitting with the blonde woman, Gwen, that Roarke and Leslie had seen him with at the pool that afternoon. "Mr. Roarke said that I would find you here. I'm afraid I was a bit high-handed with you this afternoon, and I've come to…" His voice trailed off, and Leslie realized he was staring at the blonde. "Why…Guinevere," he gasped, and realization hit her like a brick wall. "Gwen" was Queen Guinevere!

Before she could recover from her stunned surprise at this revelation, Arthur growled, "You _rogue!_ Scoundrel! Have you struck an alliance with Lancelot? Or do you dally with the queen on your own?"

Rodgers looked flustered. Lamely he mumbled, "Well, I was just…"

"Oh, Arthur," Guinevere said in disgust, getting out of her chair and rounding the table to face him directly. By now everyone in sight was staring. "Please, act your age! He's a perfectly nice man who doesn't have the slightest notion of who I am!" She beamed smugly up at the king.

"Stand aside, Guinevere," Arthur ordered, fumbling for his sword.

"Guinevere!" Rodgers breathed in horror and met Leslie's gaze; she nodded hard. "Mr. Roarke wouldn't do that to me!"

Before Leslie could speak, Arthur whipped out his sword and announced, "I shall cut this false friend into four vertical stalks of celery!" And with that, he brought the sword crashing down on the table where Rodgers and Guinevere had been sitting.

The queen deftly took a seat at a nearby table while other patrons began leaping out of their chairs and fleeing, and Arthur commenced to hack the table to bits in an attempt to reach Rodgers, who managed somehow to keep dodging the king's blows. Leslie ducked behind Guinevere, wishing she could help Rodgers but incapable of doing anything without putting herself in harm's way. Meanwhile, Arthur destroyed a chair Rodgers tried to defend himself with, then swung the sword high over his head and began to hurl it down on the hapless younger man, only to get it stuck in the elegant column-and-arch structure that delineated the perimeter of the dining area. Furious, he yanked it out and advanced on Rodgers, managing to back him into a chair over which he tripped and tumbled, before Guinevere finally had had enough.

"Stop it!" she commanded, stalking over to Arthur while Leslie stared on, hoping desperately that the enraged king would listen. At the sound of her voice, Arthur froze. "Again, you make a fool of me!" Guinevere ranted. "Camelot, London, our castle, our friends' castles…and now here! Always your insane jealousy…and like always, I am leaving you—again!" She stormed away while Arthur stared after her, looking bewildered.

Then, as if she hadn't spoken at all, Arthur made one more lunge at Rodgers with his sword and ended up falling into a table, collapsing it completely as he crashed to the ground while Rodgers scrambled out of the way in a crab-walk position. And at that precise moment Roarke walked in on the scene, apparently to see what was taking Leslie so long to return for supper. "Gentlemen, gentlemen! I suggest we have a word together in my office within the hour! In fact, we may have _several_ words together! Will you excuse me, please?" Arthur and Rodgers edged aside just enough to give him room. "Thank you," said Roarke and glanced over his shoulder at Leslie. "Come, child, we no longer have much time to eat our own meal before I must make my latest appointment." He tossed a meaningful look down at the two combatants before stepping between them, over the table and away. Leslie took off after him, with the irrational feeling that Arthur was going to come after her next with that sword of his and blame her for his discovery of his queen with another man.

Tattoo was astonished when both Roarke and Leslie ate as quickly as they could without making themselves sick. "Boss, what's the big hurry?"

"I had to make an emergency appointment," Roarke said. "Don't worry, Tattoo, you may take as much time as you like to finish your meal."

"But what for? And why's Leslie eating like that?" Tattoo persisted.

"I was a witness," said Leslie through a mouthful of mashed potatoes, which got her a stern look from her guardian and a thoroughly befuddled one from Tattoo. She swallowed and said hastily, "Sorry, Mr. Roarke."

"A witness to what?" Tattoo demanded. "What's going on?"

Roarke dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and dropped it beside his plate. "We will explain it later, Tattoo, I promise," he said. "It's time, Leslie, please come with me."

They'd no sooner gotten into the study than Ralph Rodgers and King Arthur, both looking very subdued, shuffled into the study and, at Roarke's wordless gesture, seated themselves in the club chairs in front of the desk. Roarke aimed a glare at Rodgers, then at Arthur, and then finally turned to his ward. "Now, Leslie, will you kindly tell me exactly what transpired, and don't mince words."

She cast Rodgers and Arthur one nervous glance before drawing in a deep breath and launching into a full description of what she had seen. When she finished, Roarke was silent, regarding the shamefaced men, who exchanged furtive glances; then Fantasy Island's proprietor pushed himself out of his chair and went to stand at the French shutters, gazing into the sky and shaking his head. "To say I am disappointed in the conduct of two of my most distinguished guests is to put it mildly." He turned around to glare at them once more.

Rodgers shifted in his chair. "It's my responsibility. I was…I was supposed to keep him out of trouble…and instead, I—"

"Instead, you succumbed to the formidable charms of my wife!" Arthur snapped.

"I didn't know who she was!" Rodgers protested. "I'm sorry, Arthur." Arthur's glare softened a little, but he didn't smile.

"Guinevere is a great lady and queen, Your Majesty," Roarke said. "It would seem to me that by now you should realize that you will never woo her back by reckless accusations and questionable conduct!"

Arthur stared at him in amazement, and Rodgers took advantage of the silence to pop out of his chair and pin him with a look. "He's right! And the only reason I'm involved in this, _Arthur_, is…well…you're my idol, ever since I've been a kid. I dreamed about…sitting at the Round Table with you."

Arthur gazed up at him. "You touch me, young Ralph. Matter of fact," he mused, rising, "the Round Table was a good thing when I thought of it. It gave fighting men a chance to actually express themselves, without doing harm."

"Where you would swear a mutual oath to fight only for the highest ideals, Your Majesty," Roarke added, making Leslie smile. He had a way of removing the danger and making the whole thing sound incredibly romantic and adventurous.

"Exactly," said Arthur. "That's the way it was, for a while. Things don't always work out. Like now…I…" He lowered his head and shifted nervously behind his chair. "Here, in this peculiar world of yours, I feel…clumsy. A buffoon."

"Then may I suggest that you make the most of your stay here, Your Majesty," offered Roarke, coming around to address him directly. "Let Mr. Rodgers, your most ardent admirer, help update you so that you may enjoy the few hours you have left."

Arthur considered the idea, then said, "Why not?…if you're not offended by my jealous tantrum," he appended, speaking to Rodgers.

Rodgers smiled and shook his head. "No, not really. I'd—I'd be honored, Art."

"Art?" Leslie mumbled low, and caught the beginning of Roarke's amusement; but that was all they had time for before the door burst open and Tattoo entered, clad in a red and green court jester's outfit and jangling merrily with every step, thanks to the bells that were attached to each of the drooping cones of his headgear.

"What's this? Another jest by Merlin?" Arthur exclaimed in disbelief.

"No jest," Tattoo said cheerfully. "Jester. For the masquerade ball tonight."

As if suddenly reminded, Roarke exclaimed, "Oh yes, I forgot to mention it to Your Majesty. The ball is to honor you and your queen, of course."

"What a jolly good idea…thank you, Mr. Roarke," Arthur said with pleased surprise. "No offense, jester."

Tattoo took it in good grace. "No offense."

"Your Majesty?" Roarke said and indicated the inner foyer. "Come along, Ralph." The two men departed the study and Roarke closed the door behind them.

"Really? A masquerade ball?" Leslie asked in wonder, already visualizing the sort of clothing one might wear to such an event. "It sounds like fun."

Roarke grinned at her. "And you shall attend it, Leslie, dressed up as I have no doubt you would like very much to be." She smirked, and Roarke and Tattoo both laughed. "But for the moment, we must look in on Ms. Rawlins. Tattoo will host the ball until such time as you and I can change into our costumes and join him."

‡ ‡ ‡

"We may as well get started," Sam Treacher said, "all right?" He turned to Todd Porter, a bespectacled, mustachioed man who sat quietly in a chair with a guitar in his lap. "Here you go." He offered Porter some sheet music.

"I won't be needing that," Porter said curtly.

"You mean you've already run through it with Sara Jean, is that it?"

Porter merely looked at him; Sara Jean started to step forward to intervene, but Roarke laid a hand atop hers to halt her. She looked doubtfully at him but desisted. With a chuckle, Treacher stepped aside. "Well, first off, _I_ would like to hear the new guitar player run through it, if it's all right with you."

Porter deferred to Sara Jean with a wordless look; she nodded slightly and smiled at him. Roarke and Leslie stood silently nearby, watching.

Porter nodded once, then faced forward again and began to play. The gently haunting tones of his guitar filled the theater; they all listened in silence, and after a bit Leslie saw something in her peripheral vision that made her look around at Sara Jean. There was an odd expression on the singer's face; she frowned faintly as she watched Porter's fingers moving on the guitar strings, as if she were trying to recall something.

After a moment she murmured, "I'd know Billy's playin' anywhere. That _is_ him playin', Mr. Roarke. It is." She turned her gaze up to meet his.

"Yes, Ms. Rawlins," Roarke confirmed. "It is."

Leslie stared at them both in transfixed amazement as Sara Jean asked, "But how? That's Todd."

Roarke shook his head. "It is whoever you want it to be in your heart."

Sara Jean stared at him oddly while Leslie wondered what that was supposed to mean; the singer returned her attention to Porter just in time for him to finish playing. There was definitely something going on here, if they only knew what it was.

Silence hung in the air; then the watching musicians began to applaud. Even Treacher seemed to be impressed. "Well, I gotta admit, that's some mighty fine playin'," he said, clapping Porter on the shoulder. Porter blinked but didn't move otherwise; he looked half lost in some sort of trance. "All right then, let's get this show on the road here."

Sara Jean slipped around Roarke and took her place at the microphone once more, while Treacher donned his headphones and retreated to stand beside the piano and listen. Sara Jean, this time working without sheet music, began to sing. Something about the song compelled silence—a heavy, doleful silence that seemed to weigh untold tons.

"…_I watched the morning sun play shadow games / In rooms that softly sang his name / And I reached out for him / Where have the shadows gone / Where are the shadows now?"_

The song drifted to its end; then Treacher said briskly, "All right, that's it." Sara Jean hung her head; Porter continued to sit, as if robotized.

"That was lovely, Ms. Rawlins," Roarke complimented her, while behind him Porter arose and headed backstage with his guitar, saying nothing to anyone.

Treacher came up and squeezed her arm. "That was real nice, honey. But before we start goin' platinum, let's wait'll we get it mixed tomorrow and hear the playback. You two can go." He gestured to the recording engineers and set the mike stand aside.

Sara Jean turned and realized Porter was gone. "Todd?" she called. "Todd?" There was no response at first; but then the lights dimmed, and everyone looked overhead. Leslie edged closer to Roarke.

Abruptly Porter's voice shattered the tense stillness. "Are you gonna tell them about Mill Road Lake, Sam, or do I have to?"

"Todd, what's goin' on here?" Sara Jean asked, bewildered, as Porter emerged onto the dark stage from the wings.

He stopped and gazed at the singer. "Mr. Roarke told me about your fantasy, Sara Jean, and I'm glad I was able to help make it come true."

"Ms. Rawlins, your fantasy is almost over," Roarke said. "But I want you to listen to Mr. Porter. And for one final moment, you must try very hard to be strong."

"Yes," she agreed, mystified but willing, now that the answers were about to come.

Porter stepped forward. "Sara Jean, Billy didn't die when his car went into Mill Road Lake," he said intensely.

Sara Jean stared at him; Treacher began to laugh skeptically. "What're you talkin' about? Don't listen to him, he's crazy! I was there! That…that car was on fire. I-I saw the car go over the cliff and into the lake!"

"Oh, Sam was there all right!" Porter shot back, for the first time showing some real emotion. "Said he wanted to talk to me about some songs I wrote for Sara Jean. I was savin' 'em for a surprise. Sam stole those songs from me—some of the very ones you been recordin', Sara Jean!"

"Now that's a damn lie!" Treacher exploded, outraged. "Don't you listen to him!" But Leslie thought there was something desperate about Treacher's tone, and looked up at Roarke, who was listening intently, a grim look on his face.

Porter stepped forward and placed his hands on Sara Jean's shoulders in entreaty. "Last thing I remember that night, Sam was comin' at me with a tire iron. He must've set the car on fire after he hit me. Heard later I was fished outta the lake by some old man. Taken off to a hospital in some little backwater town." He glared at Treacher. "Burnt half to death, and no identification!"

Sara Jean raised her hands to her temples, beginning to break down. "Wait a minute," she gasped, half in tears. "I don't believe what I'm hearin' here…"

Porter went on as if she hadn't spoken, his eyes on Treacher. "Accordin' to the doctor, I was in a coma for almost six months. When I came out of it, I just had one thing on my mind. I knew I had to kill Sam for what he did to me!" He whipped off his glasses.

Treacher stared, half angry, half worried; Sara Jean protested weakly, "But you don't look like Billy…how can you _be_ Billy?"

"The Billy you knew doesn't exist anymore!" Porter told her insistently.

"Billy?" Slowly she reached out as if to touch his face, but he seized her wrist and held it fast, making her gasp.

"No. No, Sara Jean…no!" And as they watched, the guitarist reached up to his hairline and grasped his skin—and _peeled it off._ Leslie smacked both hands over her mouth, gaping; Roarke slid an arm around her shoulders to keep her from reacting any further. Porter removed the dark-haired wig he'd been wearing and looked up, revealing a frightfully disfigured face with scar tissue half obscuring one eye, and a head of thin, matted red hair. He looked directly at Sara Jean, who let out a shocked gasp of her own and instinctively backed off a couple of steps. Her hand went up to her own face as if in sympathy.

"I'm sorry, Sara Jean," Billy Williams said miserably. "I guess you had to know sometime. It's time now for what I came here to do." His tone changed, grew hard and cold, and he glared once more at Sam Treacher. Slowly he approached him; for a moment Treacher goggled at him, then began to back off.

"I'm tellin' ya…I'm tellin' ya, Billy Williams is dead!" he cried frantically.

Over Billy's angry voice, Sara Jean shrieked, "Mr. Roarke, you can't let him do it, you've gotta stop 'em!"

Leslie turned to him, expecting him to move, but he said, "You can stop him, Ms. Rawlins, but only by the strength of your love."

"…gonna kill you, Sam, just like I said," they heard Billy's voice, and just as Sara Jean twisted in their direction, they all saw Sam Treacher, still backing off, take a header over a short flight of steps leading offstage, landing on his back and rolling over a coiled cord. Billy instantly took advantage, leaping the steps in one fluid move and wrapping his hands around Treacher's neck, squeezing with gradually increasing pressure.

Sara Jean flew down the stairs after him. "Billy! Billy, don't do it!" she screamed, trying to yank Billy off Treacher, without success. "Billy…Billy, I still love you!"

Billy slowly released Treacher and half straightened, staring at Sara Jean over one shoulder, disbelief all over his scarred face. He stood up, and she stepped toward him. "I always will," she insisted, beginning to cry, pulling him into her arms and resting her head on his shoulder.

Roarke patted Leslie's shoulder once or twice, then moved to the wings and deliberately lowered the lights till they stood in complete darkness. Leslie automatically reached out one hand, trying to find something to anchor herself in the solid black, but then she noticed a strange effect offstage. It looked rather like colored sparkles swirling in the air; they gave off just enough illumination that she could make out the lines of Roarke's face as he gazed intently at the couple. After a moment he brought the lights back up; Sara Jean released Billy and stepped back once, watching the colored lights in astonishment, then focusing on Billy. The sparkles vanished, and Leslie stared. Billy Williams was whole and unmarked, his red hair full, his face bearded, his eyes wide as if he wasn't sure what had just happened to him.

"Billy," Sara Jean breathed, cradling his face in her hands.

He reached up and felt his face; his eyes popped even more as he realized the scars were gone entirely. "Sara Jean," he whispered. "How…"

She began to smile. "I think I know." Radiant, she tilted forward and kissed him. At first unsure, Billy let her; then slowly his arms enclosed her and he returned her kiss with all the fervor of a love long denied.

Roarke picked up the mask Billy had worn in the guise of Todd Porter, and smiled at it; then he looked around, clearly aware of the exact moment when Leslie relaxed. He aimed the smile at her, and she walked into his embrace, glancing at the mask and then watching Billy and Sara Jean. "What's gonna happen to Sam Treacher?" she asked low, seeing Treacher lying on the floor with his hands gingerly wrapped around his neck.

"He'll be arrested for the attempted murder of Billy Williams, and quite likely for the theft of Mr. Williams' songs," Roarke said. "Have no fear, Leslie, I'll see to it that he spends tonight safely in a jail cell. As for you, you have other things to think about…such as choosing a costume for tonight's masquerade ball."

Reminded, she lit up. "Oh yeah, that's right," she said with great anticipation. "Well, hurry up and call the cops so we can pick our outfits and get changed!"

Roarke laughed and squeezed her, then moved over to a pay phone in the wings and made a quick call. Leslie seated herself on the chair where Billy Williams had played guitar on Sara Jean's recording of "Shadow Games", watching the reunited lovers still kissing.


	12. Chapter 12

§ § § -January 23, 1982

It had taken Leslie a good fifteen minutes just to go through all the available costumes suitable to be worn at a King-Arthur-era masquerade, and another fifteen trying to choose from three different gowns. One was glittering gold, another shimmering silver, the third an iridescent black with metallic red, gold and green designs trimming it. She allowed herself to take her time only because she knew Roarke was busy changing into his own costume; but by the time she finally settled on the black gown, her guardian was waiting a bit impatiently in the inner foyer, frequently consulting the grandfather clock in the study. "I daresay it's long past time you made your choice, Leslie Susan," he scolded mildly.

"Well, I couldn't help it…I found such gorgeous dresses," Leslie protested. "But I think I like this one best. Maybe it's because of this Juliet cap." She raised the little round black cap that matched the dress she had picked; a sheer black veil descended from one side of it. "Do you think I'll look okay in it, Mr. Roarke?"

"It would be difficult for me to answer that question until I see you in the gown," Roarke pointed out. "Hurry and get changed so I can tell you."

She grinned and rushed up to her room with the gown and cap, and in less than ten minutes she was back, marveling at the floor-dragging skirt and the way the red, green and gold metallic threads in the trimming glittered and sparkled in the light. "What do you think?" she asked, twirling the cap in her hands.

Roarke grinned at her under the dark mustache he had donned for the night. "You do indeed look spectacular, my child," he complimented her. "Come here and I'll help you put the cap on. There should be shoes to match this gown as well."

She nodded and came up the steps, then studied his costume carefully for the first time while he affixed the cap to her head in the proper fashion. "Who're you supposed to be, anyway?" she asked, taking in the white robe, belted in black and covered at the shoulders with a short cape adorned with glittery silver stars and a crescent moon. A broad-brimmed white hat completed the costume, perched atop a chin-length jet-black wig that matched the mustache.

Roarke chuckled, fitting the cap in place and stepping back. "Merlin, of course," he said, as if it should have been patently obvious. "Well, that looks lovely. Let's find those shoes and get to the ball before we're unforgivably late."

Leslie wished her friends could see her dressed this way as she accompanied Roarke to the same open-air dining room, cleared now of tables and chairs, where King Arthur and Ralph Rodgers had had their unfortunate fight. Not far away stood Ralph Rodgers, looking a little self-conscious in a leather jerkin over a lemon-colored leotard; beside him was Queen Guinevere, resplendent in a gold gown that made Leslie glad she had chosen the black one instead. It would never do to try to outshine a queen! Roarke approached Guinevere first thing and lifted her hand. "Ah, my lady, how lovely you look," he said, kissing it.

"Thank you, Mr. Roarke," the queen replied, "and thank you for taking so much trouble. But…I am worried about Arthur. Nobody's seen him all afternoon."

"Uh…I didn't do a very good job of taking care of him," Rodgers admitted sheepishly.

"On the contrary, Mr. Rodgers, I think you have done a splendid job helping the king redetermine his values, reassess his lifestyle, and, uh…" Roarke's gaze shifted to Guinevere. "…reevaluate his personal relationships."

"Ah," said Guinevere, regarding him in amusement. "So that's what this is all about."

Rodgers peered at Roarke. "Now I understand. That reverse polarity you were talking about? You did that on purpose."

Roarke met his challenging look with pure innocence; but then a trumpet began to sound a fanfare, saving him from having to come up with a reply. They all turned to the entrance and watched King Arthur himself—this time regal and highly admirable in gold armor, crown, and the fur-lined robe Leslie had expected, complete with attached shoulder cape—ride majestically in on an armored horse. The attendees parted for him and applauded as he rode into the enclosure; two attendants assisted him in dismounting from the horse.

Beaming, Arthur acknowledged the accolades and paused when Roarke, Leslie, Rodgers and Guinevere intercepted him. "Your Highness," Roarke said and bowed. Leslie curtsied alongside him, earning smiles from both Arthur and Guinevere.

Arthur looked at their host. "You are looking at a man who has put foolish pride behind him, Mr. Roarke."

"I congratulate you, Your Majesty," Roarke replied gravely.

Arthur's gaze shifted to Rodgers, who said, "Your Majesty, I owe you an apology."

"No, no, young Ralph. You've made me believe again. Things I let go in my life too early—fairy tales, romance, love." He said this last as he gazed at Guinevere, extending his hand to her; she stepped forward and took it, with a small, regal smile. Roarke nodded at Leslie and gently nudged Rodgers, and they stepped aside to give the king and queen a modicum of privacy.

"Since coming to this place," Arthur said, "I have looked at myself with new eyes, and beheld a fool."

Guinevere regarded him, pleasantly surprised. "Can this be Arthur, king of all England, my lord, speaking?"

"No, Guinevere. Only a man who has made your life, and his own, miserable; who begs your forgiveness and declares his undying love for you."

She goggled. "Forgive me, but…I can hardly believe my—"

"I understand," he murmured. "I know you wish to stay on here, in this world, and I pray you have every happiness. I shall love you always."

Leslie pulled her head back slightly with surprise. "She's staying here?" she hissed.

Roarke shushed her and smiled a little, and they watched as the king released Guinevere's hand and began to walk away. She turned to watch, then called, "Arthur?" He paused and turned back to her, and she went on: "I have no wish to stay here. I wish to be in Camelot…with my king. The only man that I love."

Slowly Arthur's face began to brighten; she came up to him and placed the gentlest of kisses on his lips. Smiling at her, he took her arm and said softly, "To Camelot."

They started away for Arthur's horse, then paused as if remembering something and looked back. "Young Ralph, my friend," Arthur said. Rodgers approached him with Roarke and Leslie just behind him, and Arthur smiled at him. "Would you kneel?"

Rodgers shot a questioning look at Roarke, who nodded once; the younger man sank to his knees, and Arthur said grandly, "In recognition of your devotion to your king, because you believe in the dreams of knighthood and the ideals of the Round Table…" He lifted Excalibur smoothly from its scabbard. "I herewith dub thee Sir Ralph, Knight of the Realm." He touched each of Rodgers' shoulders with the sword and resheathed it. "Rise, Sir Ralph."

Slowly Rodgers arose, quietly radiant; Roarke nodded and smiled at him, and they all watched Arthur remount his horse, and then Guinevere take her place directly in front of him. Roarke smiled. "If you follow the road to the sea, Your Majesty, you will find Camelot."

Arthur nodded acknowledgment; then he turned the horse and headed out of the enclosure, while the guests applauded them out and the trumpets again sounded a fanfare. Leslie was almost as enraptured as Rodgers, who blurted in wonder, "You see it? It really happened?"

Roarke said, "Oh, indeed, Sir Ralph, Knight of the Realm!" He smiled again.

"Sir Ralph, Knight of the Realm," Rodgers murmured dreamily, his face bright. He drifted forward, stars in his eyes. "Sir Ralph. Knight of the Realm."

Leslie grinned and murmured to Roarke, "Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?" Her guardian looked at her and laughed quietly.

All of a sudden there was a clanking behind them, and a familiar voice said, "Sorry I'm late, boss." Leslie turned around and found herself staring at Tattoo, very nearly swallowed from view by a suit of armor that was far too big for him.

Roarke hardly glanced at him. "It's all right, Tattoo," he said, still gazing after the departed Arthur and Guinevere.

"Is this better?" Tattoo asked, and only then did Roarke turn and do a double-take at sight of Tattoo's costume.

"Oh, much better, Tattoo, much better," Roarke assured him dryly.

Tattoo's eyes crinkled with delight inside the helmet; that was all they could see of his face. "That's what I thought," he agreed.

Roarke nodded, but turned aside and tried to stifle a resigned chuckle. Leslie shook her head, grinning at his reaction.

"Good grief, Tattoo, what happened to the jester outfit?" she asked in disbelief.

Tattoo snorted. "Oh, come on, Leslie. Everybody expected me to show up as a jester. That's what all little people dress like at masquerades, right? So I decided to surprise them all. The boss said it was okay if I left the party for a while to change my costume, and this is what I chose. It's a real change from the same-old-same-old, don't you think?"

"Oh yeah," Leslie agreed, matching Roarke's dry tone. "A real change all right." She rolled her eyes. "Frankly, I liked the jester costume a lot better. You looked better, and I could see your face."

"What?" said Tattoo in amazement. "My face?"

"Yeah," she retorted, and with that reached out and flipped down the visor on his helmet before he could leap back out of her range. "Now try that." Beside her, Roarke let out a very undignified snort and began to laugh in spite of himself.

§ § § - January 25, 1982

Since Saturday had been such a long and eventful day for them all, Sunday had come as a day of welcome rest—for the reunited Billy Williams and Sara Jean Rawlins, who were busy supervising the mixing of "Shadow Games" in the studio and getting reacquainted in the process; for Ralph Rodgers, who was the beneficiary of a brief arrangement on Roarke's part to send him back to Camelot, for real, for the day; and for Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo, who were able to make huge inroads on backed-up paperwork and other chores that too often got neglected in the course of fantasy-granting. When Monday morning arrived, they all were refreshed and rested, and all quite happy.

Ralph Rodgers was certainly happy, in his own subdued, shy way. When he stepped out of the rover to bid his hosts farewell, Tattoo greeted him with, "Sir Ralph," and he and Roarke bowed while Leslie curtsied.

"Sir Ralph, Knight of the Realm," Rodgers said again with quiet pride, and smiled. Then he peered at them. "Uh, tell me, Mr. Roarke, about that reverse polarity that brought King Arthur to Fantasy Island."

Roarke relented at last. "I admit to a slight—a very slight—subterfuge, one that not only satisfied your fantasy, but made you a Knight of the Round Table."

"Hm," Rodgers mused. "And?"

"And, at the request of a very old friend named Merlin, restored peace, love and harmony in a place called Camelot," Roarke concluded with a broad smile.

Rodgers grinned. "That is just…that is…that's wonderful. Thank you, Mr. Roarke."

"You're very welcome, Mr. Rodgers." Roarke shook hands; then Rodgers shook with Tattoo and finally Leslie, exchanging goodbyes with them all and heading for the plane.

Sara Jean Rawlins and Billy Williams exited the second rover and stood before their hosts with bright smiles. "Ms. Rawlins," Roarke acknowledged. "Mr. Williams."

"Mr. Roarke, I don't know how you did it," Sara Jean said. "I don't think I want to know. But I'll never forget you as long as I live."

"I consider that to be the ultimate compliment, Ms. Rawlins, thank you," he said.

"Course, what Sara Jean says goes for me too, Mr. Roarke. Now if there's anything we can ever do for you—" Billy began.

"As a matter of fact, there is something you can both do for me," Roarke said.

Billy and Sara Jean exchanged looks. "Just name it," Billy urged.

"Well, I thought perhaps…an invitation to your wedding," Roarke suggested.

Sara Jean smiled hopefully. "Mr. Roarke, I've got no folks; I'd be real proud if you'd give me away," she said.

"I will be honored," Roarke said, very pleased.

Tattoo spoke up then. "Ms. Rawlins? You didn't forget, did you?" Leslie, who had already had her autograph book signed by both Sara Jean and Billy the day before, and Roarke shot him perplexed looks and then eyed each other, as if each thought the other knew what Tattoo was talking about.

Billy and Sara Jean grinned. "Oh no, Tattoo, we didn't forget," Billy assured him and glanced over their shoulders. Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie turned to see a native girl come forward bearing a guitar, which Sara Jean accepted and then presented to Tattoo. "For you." She looped the strap over Tattoo's head, and Leslie could see that the guitar, like her book, bore Sara Jean's and Billy's signatures.

"Oh, thank you," Tattoo said, delighted. "Thank you!"

Sara Jean smiled and turned to Roarke. "Well, I 'spect we oughta be goin' now. Thank you very much."

"Much happiness to you both," Roarke said with a smile, and they bid one another goodbye, watching while Billy and Sara Jean made their way toward the dock.

"Bye," Tattoo called after them and then began to strum the guitar, which Leslie knew very well he didn't play, while humming some wordless, tuneless melody in accompaniment. She winced and looked pleadingly at her guardian.

"Please," Roarke said, not having to be encouraged to put an end to Tattoo's attempt to make music. He reached out and removed the guitar, handing it back to the waiting native girl. "Please, take it to his cottage, will you?" The girl nodded and bore the instrument away, much to Leslie's relief. "Thank you."

"But boss—!" Tattoo began to protest.

"Later, Tattoo, later!" Roarke admonished him. "Not here!"

"Not anywhere else people can hear you, either," Leslie added direly. For that she was rewarded with an impressively filthy glare from Tattoo, which made Roarke laugh before raising his hand and waving their final farewells.

§ § § - April 20, 2007

Leslie's friends were laughing as she wound up the narrative. "Oh, Leslie, that was just cruel!" Maureen scolded her through her mirth. "Poor Tattoo."

"Oh, seriously," Leslie retorted, laughing herself. "The real cruelty would have been letting him try to sing in front of all those people. And I don't think any of you guys ever heard Tattoo sing."

"Oh?" said Christian curiously. "What did he sound like?"

Leslie and Roarke looked at each other, then both snickered, and Roarke said, "Let's just say he was much better off sticking to his painting." Everyone burst out laughing all over again.

When they'd settled down, Myeko asked, "So did you go to their wedding?"

"They came back and had it here," Leslie explained, "so that Father could give Sara Jean away as she'd asked him to. It was a really gorgeous wedding. Beautiful summer day. I never saw so many paparazzi. I think I might have showed up in the background of some of the pictures in the country-music magazines—at almost the last minute, Sara Jean asked me to be her flower girl. I couldn't resist."

Just then Errico yawned, then looked around sheepishly at all the surprised faces the action had attracted and essayed a grin. "You must all forgive me, but I'm afraid I much need to get some sleep. It's been a beastly long week, I'm sure you all know. I am sure, though, that my dearest wife would appreciate hearing more stories. Perhaps, Mr. Roarke, if you and Leslie are willing, and all the rest of you can be here, we might commence to meet here at the same time tomorrow evening, and hear more of these delightful adventures?"

"That, we can do," Roarke said with a smile, nodding at Michiko. "I've been enjoying the telling, and I have no doubt Leslie has as well. So we will see you all here tomorrow, if you can come."


	13. Chapter 13

§ § § - April 21, 2007

The whole group was back in Roarke's study the following evening, just as they had arranged, and Diane reported that she had heard from her daughter Alison, a college student in Minnesota. "Minnesota!" echoed Leslie. "What a complete climatic change from here! Did she choose it because of that?"

Diane grinned and nodded. "Yeah. See, I'm originally from Minnesota myself, and I used to talk about the horrible winters we had when I was a little kid. My dad was career Air Force and had been stationed in Minnesota when I was born, and up till I turned twelve. Then he heard of an opening at Coral Island and sprang for it, and we ended up moving all the way out here just as I was about to start seventh grade. I have four older siblings, and by the time we came out here two of them had already graduated. The third one was just starting senior year in high school and arranged to stay behind and live with my grandparents to finish in the same school. So it was just my parents, me, and my older brother. I don't know if any of you might remember Danny Kezanian."

"I think I might," Camille said, frowning in concentration. "Is he four years older than you? If he was, then he would've been in the same class as my sister Andrea."

"Yeah, Danny used to occasionally mention an Andrea Ichino who he said was likely to be class valedictorian for his year. So anyway…since Alison was born here on the island a couple years after Bobby and I married, she was curious about snow and applied to the University of Minnesota. They took her, and according to her letters, she has an absolute blast every winter. Last Christmas she stayed with my sister Janet and her family, and I didn't want to be left alone here, so I flew out to spend it with them. It was great to have a white Christmas again."

"I just bet," Leslie agreed with a grin. "I get nostalgic for them myself. So…speaking of nostalgia, are you ready for some more of it, Michiko?"

Michiko smiled mischievously. "Isn't that why I arranged all this?" They all laughed, and she resettled herself snugly against Errico's side. "Well, you can start anytime. I'm ready, and I think everybody else probably is too."

"Sounds good," said Leslie, surveying the group. "You know, Christian, my love, you said something about there having been a theme to last evening's stories. I think maybe we should try a different theme tonight. How about it, Father? Michiko mentioned she needed some laughs, so maybe we can come up with some funny fantasies."

Roarke smiled a little wryly and sat back in his chair. "I daresay we'll have plenty of those to go around. Why don't you start."

Leslie thought for a moment; then she lit up and grinned broadly. "Oh, this is a really good one. Father may not necessarily agree with me, but it sure made for a hilarious weekend. Remember when Tattoo tried to start a computer dating service?"

Roarke closed his eyes and sighed gently, making the others laugh. "A computer dating service, huh?" Christian said with a grin. "This I have to hear."

§ § § - February 20, 1982

"There he is, boss," Tattoo exclaimed excitedly, watching as a craggy-faced man in a western-style suit stepped out of the plane's hatch, behind a pretty woman with wedge-cut auburn hair, wearing a sundress in a parti-colored pattern trimmed in black. Leslie didn't recognize either one of them.

"Yes, Tattoo," Roarke said, "your favorite comedian, Mr. Beau Gillette."

"Oh, that's who he is," Leslie said. She had heard of the man, whose down-home humor had made him a nice little fortune. "Who's that with him?"

"Ms. Jenny Casey, Mr. Gillette's fiancée; and as you can no doubt tell, the two of them are very much in love."

Tattoo beamed; he was almost as much in love with love as his boss. "Which one has the fantasy?"

"Mr. Gillette. His fantasy is for his family to come to life."

"The people he talks about in his act?" Tattoo asked. Roarke nodded.

Leslie was very surprised. "You mean they don't really exist?"

"No," said Roarke with a headshake. "His colorful west-Texas relatives are purely imaginary, Leslie—a fact he keeps a closely guarded secret."

"But why, boss?" asked Tattoo, bewildered.

Roarke only cast him a sidelong look. "You will find out in due time," he promised, with that mysterious little smile of his; then he shifted his attention back to the dock, where now a sweetly pretty blonde in an aqua dress clambered out of the plane. Leslie could see another woman behind her, preparing to disembark. She turned to her guardian in surprise when he said in a perplexed voice, "That's curious."

"What is, boss?" Tattoo inquired.

"Those two young ladies," said Roarke. "I don't recall that they were listed in the flight manifest."

"Oh, I know them, boss," Tattoo said, beginning to brighten. "The first lady is Claudia Mills, and the other one is Harriet Wilson." The latter woman was a little older than the blonde and had shorter, dark-blonde hair, but was clearly even more excited than her companion to be here, judging from her huge grin.

"Miss Claudia Mills and Miss Harriet Wilson…how interesting that you should know them," Roarke remarked suspiciously.

Tattoo smiled serenely. "You know how I always say that marriage is the most sacred of all human institutions?"

"Yes, Tattoo?" Roarke prompted, looking dubious.

"Sure," Leslie couldn't resist tossing in. "Sacred as long as he doesn't have to enter into it." Roarke visibly stifled a smile and Tattoo shot her a killing look before pointedly turning back to his waiting boss.

"Well," he said, "they are here to get married."

"Oh," said Roarke, watching him, suspicions ever growing.

"The only problem is," Tattoo admitted, now looking slightly apprehensive, "they don't know their husbands yet."

Roarke nodded with enlightenment. "Could it be that you are involved in arranging such a meeting?"

"No, we'll leave that to the computer," said Tattoo.

Roarke leaned toward him. "Computer?"

"Right," Tattoo said, nodding.

" 'We'?" Roarke asked next.

"Yes! Oh, I'm sorry…I didn't tell you about my partner, Ambrose."

"Ambrose," Roarke repeated. To Leslie he was beginning to sound a little like a disgruntled parrot, but she wisely kept this to herself.

"Yes, he's the one with the computer," Tattoo explained. "We call our business the Ideal Mate _On-coon-tair_ Service." He rendered the penultimate word with a uniquely French twist that confused Roarke.

"The Ideal Mate what?" he said, shaking his head slightly as if to reset his brain.

Leslie grinned. "I think he said the Ideal Mate Encounter Service."

"Oh…the Ideal Mate Encounter Service…of course," Roarke said, slowly straightening up. His smile began to fade into a truly doubtful look. "Thank you, Leslie, by the way. Uh…" He cleared his throat and addressed Tattoo. "You realize that matrimony is an arena of great potential risk to everyone concerned."

"Don't worry, boss, I can handle it," Tattoo said confidently.

"That's precisely what worries me most," parried Roarke, and Leslie snickered. Tattoo's optimism collapsed into an expression of befuddlement, and that was when Roarke chose to accept his champagne flute and raise it in the weekly greeting. Harriet Wilson and Claudia Mills received a professionally welcoming smile from Tattoo, who remained blithely unaware of the half-dubious, half-annoyed look Roarke awarded him.

‡ ‡ ‡

Beau Gillette was as Texas as they came, Leslie soon discovered; he was genial and expansive, and more than happy to give Tattoo an autograph. At the Frenchman's urging, Leslie went for her autograph book and had Gillette sign it as well, before Tattoo excused himself, saying he had business to attend to. "Good luck with your fantasy, Mr. Gillette," he said cheerfully and hurried out, leaving Roarke and Leslie staring after him.

"Somethin' wrong, Mr. Roarke, Miss Leslie?" Gillette inquired politely.

Leslie blinked and peered at their guest; Roarke recovered smoothly. "No, everything is fine, Mr. Gillette. May I ask if you or Miss Casey need anything?"

"Aw, no thanks, Mr. Roarke, Jenny's restin' in the bungalow an' I'm just dyin' to see how you're gonna pull off my fantasy. I told Jenny she might's well stay put since…well…"

Roarke smiled when he faltered. "Why don't we go to the supper club, Mr. Gillette. I think there, we will be able to speak more in private."

The supper club was, of course, deserted at this time of day; the interior was dark, and even George, the manager, was nowhere in evidence. Roarke led Gillette and Leslie across the floor, weaving through the various small tables and chairs wrought from natural wicker. "I believe the stage should be more than suitable for your routine," Roarke said.

"To tell you the truth, Mr. Roarke, I'm more interested in my fantasy than I am in checkin' out that stage," Gillette remarked.

Roarke stopped and turned to him. "In your case, Mr. Gillette, the stage is vital to your fantasy. As you realize, your family lives only in the deepest recesses of your mind. You conceived them while you were still a boy in the St. Bridget Orphanage."

"But you _can_ bring 'em to life for me, right?" Gillette persisted anxiously.

"Oh, yes, yes, I can help you do that, Mr. Gillette, in the same way you delighted the other children in the orphanage…the way you've made audiences laugh from coast to coast for the past ten years and made them think your family was real."

Gillette eyed him skeptically. "You mean by me doin' my act?"

"Precisely," said Roarke.

Gillette laughed. "Y'know, it's like you said, Mr. Roarke, I've been doin' that act for ten years—an' my family hasn't come alive yet."

Roarke raised a finger, his dark eyes dancing with secrets. "Ah…but this…" He slowly swept a hand toward the stage. "…is Fantasy Island, Mr. Gillette." All three of them watched the stage, where a backdrop began to slowly brighten, showing at first only a stylized late-afternoon sun and the silhouettes of ranch buildings, a cowboy and horse, an oil derrick off in the distance, and dimly lit in the foreground, a bale of hay and a microphone stand.

Roarke then turned to Gillette. "You must realize that once your family becomes real, they will be precisely that—real people, with minds and motives of their own, over which you will have no control whatsoever."

Gillette was delighted. "That's no problem, Mr. Roarke—they're wonderful people! They're warm and friendly…they're family!"

"I see," murmured Roarke.

"Jenny's gonna love 'em," Gillette said confidently. "Y'know, I'm doin' this for her. She doesn't know I'm an orphan and that my family's just make-believe." At that, Leslie frowned disapprovingly to herself. What kind of marriage were Gillette and his fiancée destined to have, if he couldn't come clean to her about his imaginary family?

Roarke nodded slightly, the same thought running through his mind. "You could tell her the truth, Mr. Gillette."

"I can't," Gillette protested. "Not yet. I…I played it this way too long, and I—I want her to see me like I really am—with real people, and a family that loves me."

_But you really are an orphan,_ Leslie couldn't help thinking. _You're not letting her see you like you "really are" at all!_ Still, beside her, Roarke nodded acquiescence. "Yes…well, as you wish, Mr. Gillette. Now, if you'll step onto that stage and begin your act, please." He gestured to the waiting stage.

Gillette chuckled skeptically one more time, but finally gave in and mounted the steps onto the mostly darkened stage. He paused beside the microphone, looked around him, and mumbled, "Well, here goes." He lifted the mike from the stand while Roarke and Leslie settled into chairs at the nearest table.

"I see you folks're kinda into them fancy Polynesian drinks, huh?" Gillette began, as if there were an actual crowd filling the room, watching him. "Y'know the fanciest drink we ever had in my part o' Texas? Tennessee sour mash with a beer behind it." Leslie saw Roarke smiling with gentle amusement, and rested her elbow on the table, propping her cheek on her fist. "I'll never, ever forget when my mama caught me drinkin' for the first time."

Roarke narrowed his eyes, and the little porch behind Gillette and to his left lit up, spotlighting an aging rocking chair. Gillette went on talking: "Whoo-ee! She set up and drank shooter for shooter with me, until I…well, I was so sick I had to go out to that little house out back…you know, the one with the half-moon in the door?" In the rocking chair appeared a gray-haired, smiling lady wearing a homespun dress with a shawl thrown over one shoulder, watching Gillette with love in her eyes, though as yet he was unaware she was there. "I always said that that place…well, in the wintertime it was thirty yards too far away, and in the summer it was thirty yards too close." Leslie giggled softly, and Roarke glanced at her with an answering smile. "But y'know, it never worried Mama. She was always too busy tellin' Uncle Jack that his moonshine was too weak to clean withers with. Now Uncle Jack played banjo…"

The cowboy-outfitted mannequin that had earlier been silhouetted in the stage's first dim lighting now faded out and was replaced by a white-haired, mustached man in a ten-gallon hat and suspenders over well-worn work clothing, cradling a banjo in his arms. "…and he made moonshine, and he was always happy as a possum eatin' beans…'cept one time. He caught his daughter—now that would be my second cousin Lindy—she entered in a wet T-shirt contest down at the Dew Drop Inn." Gillette let out a chortle as, to his right, an attractive, buxom young blonde emerged into sight under a rising spotlight, sitting on a bale of hay and chewing on a straw. "She tried to convince him that she just walked in outta the rain, and they handed her the trophy!" Leslie rolled her eyes but grinned good-naturedly, and Roarke smiled, both amused and satisfied with his handiwork. "Now Uncle Jack didn't buy that for a minute…"

Gillette stopped right there when he heard the rocking chair creak, and slowly he peered over his shoulder in the direction of the sound. "Mama!" he burst out, and one by one he noticed the others. "Uncle Jack! Lindy! Hey, Mr. Roarke, y'did it! Uh, we did it! Tarnation…_my family!"_ He let out a loud whoop and threw his hat high in the air as his newly created family members leaped forward and embraced him with hugs and shouts.

Leslie watched, feeling slightly wistful, beginning to entertain the notion of having Roarke "resuscitate" her mother and sisters sometime if he was willing—till she looked at him and saw the deep concern on his handsome features. Maybe she was better off leaving things as they stood…

Roarke seemed to come abruptly back to the moment and met her gaze. "Let's go, Leslie," he said quietly, and they arose, pushed the chairs back under the table and departed the supper club, unnoticed by Gillette and the "family" he had just acquired.

"What're we doing now?" she asked, once they were outside.

Roarke pondered for a few seconds, then nodded once to himself. "Perhaps it's best if you find Tattoo," he suggested. "You need not tell him I sent you, just say you were curious, or whatever explanation you find expedient, should he ask. But, just between you and me, I think he needs…well, a supervisor."

Leslie reared back just a little and stared at him in astonishment. "Me, a supervisor?" she said. "Boy, that's a switch!"

Roarke grinned wryly. "Indeed. Under the circumstances, though, I feel it wisest. Please, Leslie, hurry, before he has a chance to get in over his head."

She grinned, recalling several past occasions on which Tattoo had attempted to grant fantasies. "It might already be too late."

Roarke sighed. "That's what I'm afraid of," he muttered, and she laughed.

"Well, I'll try to keep him out of as much trouble as I can," she promised. "See you at lunch, Mr. Roarke." He smiled, and she struck off at a trot down the nearest trail, which would take her to the bungalows; it seemed reasonable to start there.

By some great good fortune, she met up with Tattoo on the same trail, just a few yards before they both would have emerged into the bungalow area. "Oh, hi, Leslie," Tattoo said cheerfully. "You're just in time. I've gotta see Miss Wilson."

"Oh, then I'll come with you," Leslie offered.

"Sure," Tattoo agreed without fuss, and Leslie breathed a little mental sigh of relief that he wasn't asking for explanations. Dutifully she accompanied him across the lush green lawn toward the nearest bungalow, where they could see someone in the process of unlocking the door. "Miss Wilson!" Tattoo hailed.

The woman at the door turned and called, "Yes?"

"Wait for me," Tattoo requested, and hurried up onto the porch steps. "Miss Wilson, this is Leslie Hamilton—she's Mr. Roarke's ward. She's…"

Leslie, trying to think fast, filled in, "Uh, I'm just here to…to see how his business works out. In case I…well, in case I want to…oh, buy stock in it."

Harriet Wilson's face grew slightly confused, and even Tattoo threw her a _say what?_ look; Leslie could only shrug and smile foolishly. But Harriet chuckled. "Well, you never know what you might learn." Leslie nodded.

Tattoo cleared his throat, trying to get things back on track. "Hello, I'm Tattoo, from the Ideal Mate On-coon-tair Service."

"The what?" said Harriet, confused again.

"The Ideal Mate Encounter Service," Leslie translated helpfully, wondering if poor Tattoo was ever going to master the pronunciation of that word.

Harriet brightened. "Oh, yes, of course! You've come to introduce me to the man I'm gonna marry."

"Right," said Tattoo. "You have your card?"

"Oh yes, it's right here." Harriet dug into her shoulder bag and produced an IBM card, which she handed to Tattoo. "He's the most handsome man I've ever seen."

Beaming, Tattoo accepted the card and looked at it, then goggled; Leslie barely bit back a gasp of disbelief. The photograph in the corner, which had a caption below it that said _Your New Husband_, was of Roarke!

Tattoo stuttered, mumbled something incomprehensible which Leslie suspected was in French, and goggled at Harriet. "Oh…I think I just got fired."

"What'd you say?" Harriet asked, startled.

Tattoo handed the card back to her and managed an overly broad smile. "I said I think I just got inspired."

"Oh." Harriet accepted both the lame explanation and the card.

The smile faded. "I have to go. See you later, Miss Wilson." He threw Leslie an urgent glance and barreled off the steps; she plunged along in his wake, afraid that if she glanced back, Harriet would stop her for some sort of explanation.

When they were safely out of sight and earshot, Leslie grabbed Tattoo's shoulder to stop him. "What on earth happened back there?"

"You saw it," Tattoo said. "The boss's picture is on her card!"

"I know that," Leslie snorted impatiently. "How'd it get there, is what I'm asking?"

"I don't know!" Tattoo burst out, throwing his hands in the air. "I wish I did! And not only did the boss's picture show up on Miss Wilson's card, it showed up on Miss Mills' card too! They both think they're gonna marry the boss!"

"Whoa," said Leslie, regarding him in awe. "You're right, I think you're fired."

This got her a disgusted look from Tattoo. "You're no help." He broke back into a fast walk, and she had to take a quick leap to catch up.

"Where're you going?" she asked.

"Just be quiet and come with me," Tattoo ordered, and Leslie rolled her eyes and fell into step beside him. She'd been right: it was already too late.

Instead of heading for the main house, Tattoo turned down a different path that led to the outskirts of town, where a cluster of buildings whose tenants seemed to change with the seasons were huddled around a square of green grass bisected by the path they were on. On one of the buildings was a prominent sign announcing the Ideal Mate Encounter Service, and there were several signs in the windows trumpeting sales and deals. Leslie tried to read them all as she and Tattoo neared the place, but didn't quite succeed before he threw the door open, shouting, "Ambrose! Hey Ambrose, you here?"

"In the back," called a voice from deeper within the building, and Tattoo led Leslie through a small, deserted office furnished with a desk and chair, a couple of prints of famous paintings, and an enormous potted fern. In the back he shoved open another door and let Leslie in ahead of him before taking a hasty look around the office and slamming the door. In the corner, Leslie saw a tall blond man with perpetually startled-looking eyes, clad in khaki pants and a blue-plaid shirt; he turned around when they came in. "Hiya, Tattoo."

"Yeah, hi. Ambrose, this is Mr. Roarke's ward, Leslie Hamilton; Leslie, Ambrose Tuttle." Leslie and Ambrose shook hands, and Tattoo drew himself up as tall as he could make himself and eyed his partner. "Okay, what's wrong with these computers?"

"Wrong?" Ambrose parroted blankly. "Nothing as far as I know, why?"

"Because something's the matter with the match cards," Tattoo said. "I've already talked to Miss Mills and Miss Wilson, and they're both matched up with the same man."

"And it's Mr. Roarke," Leslie put in. "For both of them."

Ambrose's nearly round eyes bounced back and forth between them as they spoke; then he blinked slowly once and peered at the nearest computer, poking a fingernail between his lips and "hmm"-ing thoughtfully. "Well, I could run a test."

"You do that," Tattoo agreed. "We'll wait."

The test in question ate up more than fifteen minutes, and Ambrose finally shook his head and said, "The computers show no signs of internal malfunction."

"Well, if that's true, then what's the problem?" Leslie asked.

"I don't know…I don't know," Tattoo said helplessly. He peered at another machine, aglow with small blinking bulbs, except for one row about halfway down. "What about all those lights there? Maybe they burned out."

"Oh, they don't have anything to do with it," Ambrose told him.

"Then why'd the computer send out those pictures of the boss?"

"I don't know!" said Ambrose, like Tattoo throwing his hands into the air. "I fed it all the data you requested—profiles, photographs of the most handsome and sophisticated men on Fantasy Island. It was supposed to select the perfect mate for our lady customers."

Tattoo frowned thoughtfully, then muttered, "Wait." Ambrose and Leslie watched him go to a full mail sack that stood between the doorjamb and the small table whose only chair Leslie currently occupied; he extracted a stack of envelopes and withdrew a card from the topmost one. Leslie half stood up to get a look; sure enough, the photo was of Roarke. "There is a picture of the boss," Tattoo said and reached into the next envelope; that card, too, held Roarke's photo.

"The computer picks Mr. Roarke every time!" Leslie realized, wide-eyed.

"Well," Ambrose commented wryly, "I guess in a way, we can consider ourselves lucky the mail hasn't been picked up yet."

"What am I going to do?" Tattoo asked plaintively. "How am I going to leave the island without the boss seeing me?"

"Leave the island?" Leslie exclaimed. "Oh, come on, Tattoo. There's gotta be a better answer than that."

Tattoo snorted, then stood and racked his brain a moment before brightening. "I've got it," he murmured, his face growing more and more animated. "Swimming lessons."

Ambrose and Leslie traded blank looks, and Leslie leaned over the back of the chair as far as it would allow her to go. "Get out of here," she scoffed. "How can you give swimming lessons when you can't even swim yourself?"

Exasperated, Tattoo made a shooing motion at her. "Not that—oh, never mind. You keep trying to figure out what's happening, Ambrose. Leslie, it's getting late—you better get home for lunch before the boss starts wondering what happened to you."

"Should I tell him what's going on?" she asked innocently, standing up.

"_No!"_ Tattoo exploded, horrified. "Are you kidding? Do you _want_ the boss to fire me or something? Don't say a word, Leslie!"

"Well, he's gonna find out sooner or later," Leslie pointed out. "Maybe he'll be more forgiving if it comes from you." That merely met with another snort from Tattoo, and Leslie gave up, shrugging at Ambrose, who shrugged back and grinned.


	14. Chapter 14

§ § § - February 20, 1982

She met Roarke for lunch, wondering in the back of her head what she should say if he asked about Tattoo and his business. "I see you've had a productive morning," Roarke observed jovially, taking his usual chair at the table on the veranda.

"Um, I suppose you could say that," Leslie said and sat down. "What's for lunch? I hope it's something really good. Maybe something with pineapple in it. Or mango…I love mango. Maybe even papaya—that stuff is delectable. You know something, Mr. Roarke, I never had mango or papaya till I came to this island. Now I'm hooked."

"Are you?" said Roarke, who was eyeing her a little strangely. "Interesting that you should say so now, after you've been here three years."

Leslie hunched her shoulders a moment, not having to feign sheepishness. "Aw, well, I guess I was, um, so overwhelmed by all the new flavors and textures that I, uh…" She let the sentence die where it was, aware that it sounded too ridiculous to be believed. "Well, I said it now," she finally offered lamely.

Roarke looked amused. "So you did. Well, to answer your question of a moment ago, I believe Mana'olana has prepared roast-beef sandwiches and potato salad, and she says there will be some of those baked beans you were raised with."

"Oh good," Leslie said, genuinely pleased; she was hungry.

"Does Tattoo plan to join us?" Roarke inquired.

_Swimming lessons,_ Tattoo's voice seemed to say in Leslie's head. "Well, he said something about swimming lessons," she said, seizing on the phrase. "I guess that means he's going over to the pool to find out how they're coming along."

"Ah, I see," Roarke said. "He's quite dedicated this weekend. Good for him." With that, he began to put food on his plate.

Relieved that the subject seemed to be closed, Leslie filled her own plate and ate with enthusiasm; Tattoo did not appear throughout the meal, and she was debating going back to the Ideal Mate Encounter Service to check in on him when Roarke said, "Well, since Tattoo apparently has things fairly well in hand, why don't you stay and sort the mail for me. I have some paperwork that simply can't be postponed any longer, and I'd better start on it."

Leslie agreed and followed him into the study; she took her usual place at the desk, and he sat in one of the red-velvet-upholstered chairs that matched the settee under the tall shuttered windows, going through several papers that lay on the polished dark-wood table before him. Some ten minutes later, there was a knock on the door.

"Yes, come in," Roarke called out without pausing in his work.

Leslie looked up from a letter in time to see the blonde Claudia Mills, whom she recognized from the plane that morning, enter the room. When Claudia saw Roarke, she lit up and dashed down the steps toward him; Roarke arose from his chair barely in time to catch her as she threw her arms around him, exclaiming in delight. "Oh, I was told that I could find you here, Mr. Roarke. Ooh, now that I see you up close, you're even more handsome than in your picture!" she chirped happily.

Leslie gulped, hoping no one else heard her. _Oh boy, now all the nasty stuff's gonna hit the fan,_ she thought. Like a rubbernecker examining a car wreck, she watched avidly.

"Oh, that's very flattering, Miss…uh, Miss Mills, isn't it?" Roarke responded, a little taken aback, but ever polite and warm.

"Claudia," she said, "but don't be so formal."

"Uh, thank you…uh, Claudia." Roarke visibly gathered himself. "Claudia, I'm curious; may I ask exactly what picture you're referring to?"

"Oh yes!" Eagerly Claudia dug into her little clutch and produced the IBM card with Roarke's photo in the corner, while Leslie watched, completely helpless to do anything to stop the ongoing debacle. _Yup, Tattoo's definitely fired this time…_

Roarke took the card, then did an absolutely beautiful goggle when he saw the picture of himself. Leslie barely prevented an outburst of glee at his reaction. Fortunately for her, he was too shocked to notice. His dark eyes slid closed for a second, then he opened them again and gave the ceiling one resigned glance. "The Ideal Mate Encounter Service, of course…" he mumbled to himself.

The thrilled Claudia Mills threw her arms around his neck and hugged him close, startling him. "I was thinking that a garden wedding would be ideal, don't you?"

Roarke actually looked a little panicky. "Well…"

"Oh, with a lot of champagne and flowers, and music," Claudia barreled on, then caught herself and said to him, "I prefer Mozart, if you don't have any objections."

"Oh, no no no, absolutely not," Roarke blurted, beginning to back away, to no avail, since Claudia hung stubbornly onto him. "I've always thought that garden weddings are lovely too…" At that point he backed into the ceiling support post beside the desk with a thud, startling himself, yet kept talking. "I can hardly wait to make the…additional arrangements…that will be required…uh, uh, Tattoo?" Leslie stared, no longer even trying to hold back her astonished mirth; her eyes were round with delight and her face slack, mouth wide open with a burgeoning grin.

Claudia had actually started loosening his tie. "Oh, this is perfect! You're perfect, Mr. Roarke…I'm so glad that you think we should _jump in_ with both feet," she bubbled, comically exaggerating the italicized words in a way that made Leslie very nearly explode. She had just seen Tattoo edge hastily off the terrace from the corner of her eye, but the little scene playing out before her was just too delicious to miss.

"Oh no, no, we needn't be so hasty," Roarke protested through a bright, false, desperate smile. "We can decide that later…actually, there are so many, uh, other details which I shall have to attend to." Claudia had managed to back him into the wall this time. "For instance, I shall have to have a talk with my assistant, Tattoo." The last two words came out through his teeth, and Leslie couldn't help herself; she threw one swift glance at the terrace, but fortunately for Tattoo, he was gone. Roarke concluded, "A very _long_ talk, if you will excuse me." He offered the card to Claudia.

"Of course, Mr. Roarke," she agreed brightly. "I'll just go back to my bungalow and get unpacked."

"Excellent idea, Claudia, excellent," Roarke lauded, plainly in the hope of getting her out of the house so he could find the errant Tattoo. But she wasn't quite finished and leaped on him again with another choking hug.

Then she asked: "Mr. Roarke, do you think that I could be more informal? I mean, now that we're going to be married?" She turned wide, hopeful eyes on him; their faces, hers eager and his all but terrified, were about half an inch apart.

"Oh, uh, but, uh…" Roarke actually stuttered, and Leslie gaped, a heartbeat away from falling to the floor. "Of course, Claudia, of course," he finally managed.

"Well, you do have a first name," she prompted. This really caught Leslie's attention, and her eyes got as wide as Claudia's while she slid to the edge of her chair, dying to hear her guardian's response to this.

Roarke's eyes, too, had popped open; he looked hopelessly trapped. As Claudia and Leslie hung on his words, he pulled himself together once more, drew in and released a breath, smiled and assured Claudia, "Yes—yes, indeed I do." He kissed her hand, and just when both females thought he was going to tell them, Roarke whipped aside and poked his head out the French shutters. "Tattoo?" he all but shouted, and seizing the chance he'd just given himself, strode across the terrace.

"But…but what _is_ your first name?" Claudia protested and peered at the card in bewilderment. Only then did she finally focus on Leslie, who still sat half on and half off her chair, just short of getting up and running after her guardian. "Oh…do _you_ know Mr. Roarke's first name?"

At that, Leslie did fall off the chair, landing hard on her thigh. "Ow," she groaned, then peered up at Claudia Mills with a woebegone expression. "I've been wondering that for the last three years."

"Tattoo?" they both heard Roarke's voice in the distance, and Claudia looked up and out after the departed Roarke, her face relaxing into a besotted smile and sigh. Leslie scrambled gracelessly off the floor, tossed some excuse in Claudia's direction and took off in her guardian's wake, ignoring the gentle throb in her leg.

As Roarke kept calling for Tattoo, Leslie finally caught up with him, dodging another couple, just as he passed a bench on which sat Harriet Wilson. She recognized him and leaped to her feet, catching him beside a fountain. "Oh, there you are!" Roarke stopped where he was and stared curiously at her.

"Oh, I'm delighted," he said, while Leslie, taking advantage of his distraction, swept a hurried 360-degree look around her for Tattoo, in vain. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Mr. Roarke," the woman said, sounding deeply thrilled, beaming at him. "I'm Harriet Wilson." She said this as if she expected him to recognize the name; it did snare Leslie's attention, since she had been with Tattoo when he first went to see her. She completely forgot about Tattoo, far more interested in what was about to take place.

"Yes?" Roarke prompted blankly, though with his usual gracious smile.

"You know, the Ideal Mate Encounter Service," Harriet explained.

Roarke's smile began to fade. "Oh yes…yes, I'm quite familiar with it."

Harriet plunged a hand into her bag and came up with a card identical to Claudia's, displaying it at him. "Here you are."

Roarke's smile vanished altogether as he once again beheld his own likeness gazing up at him. Something nearby moved, and Leslie noticed Tattoo peering anxiously out from behind the huge glossy leaves of a large bush, staring at the proceedings while Harriet said breathlessly, "Oh, Mr. Roarke, I think you take a wonderful picture."

"Thank you," Roarke mumbled, then met her gaze and blinked, repeating the phrase.

"I think we ought to be married at sea, don't you?" Harriet asked in a dramatically dreamy voice. Roarke got out no more than a flustered "Well…" before she continued, "At dawn…and we ought to read our own vows. I've already written mine." She gazed adoringly at him, sliding her hand down his somewhat loosened tie.

"Yes," said Roarke, looking a bit dazed. "Yes, that would lend a certain…romantic flavor to the ceremony." He actually smiled, and for one insane moment Leslie thought he was about to agree to go through with it, while he and Harriet gazed at each other. Then he turned aside and called sternly, "Tattoo?" The bush instantly closed over the small patch of white Leslie could still see in her peripheral.

Harriet started and blinked, and Roarke said hastily, "Forgive me for shouting…the excitement of such a momentous occasion…" Tattoo dared peek out of the bush again; Leslie felt as if she were at a tennis match, her head was swinging back and forth so much. "And there are so many preparations that must be made. Tattoo is my associate, in charge of weddings," Roarke explained, and on Harriet's "oh," added, "I have a few things to say to him." _I just bet!_ Leslie thought, and deliberately turned her head to face her guardian, in an attempt to keep from being included in whatever Roarke had in mind for Tattoo.

"If you will please excuse me…Harriet…" Roarke said the name almost in reverence, and kissed her hand as well, before releasing her and walking away with a very odd and ominous look on his face. Oblivious, Harriet watched him go, a dreamy look in her eyes.

"Isn't he the most romantic man on earth?" she gushed.

"Oh, yeah," Leslie blurted. "Um, uh-huh. 'Scuse me, I better go." Just as she took to her heels in Roarke's wake, she again saw the bush swallow Tattoo, and for the first time was sorely tempted to reveal his whereabouts to Roarke.

Having spent the next ten or fifteen minutes hunting his assistant down, with his ward faithfully trailing him like a leashed puppy, Roarke stopped near the town square, thoroughly exasperated. "This is simply ridiculous!" he announced and turned so abruptly on Leslie that she stumbled on her own heels and plummeted to the ground. "Do you—oh, forgive me, Leslie, I'm terribly sorry." He extended a hand and helped her stand.

"Well, that's two," Leslie muttered.

"What?" her guardian prompted.

She shook her head. "Nothing. Never mind." She busied herself brushing her skirt free of the dirt from the path.

Roarke watched in silence till she finally realized he had neither moved nor spoken, and slowed her motions, then stopped, looking apprehensively up at him through her bangs. He had folded his arms over his chest and was gazing intently at her. "As I was about to ask, now that I have your attention at last," he said a little ironically, and Leslie winced a little. "Do you know where I might be most likely to find Tattoo?"

"Well, uh…he could be anywhere, really," she began.

"Don't beat around the bush, Leslie Susan," Roarke warned. "My patience has just about run out. Now tell me, where would Tattoo be?"

Leslie gave up. This was none of her doing; she had merely been assigned to keep an eye on Tattoo, and the seeds of this shipwreck had already been sown long before that. She released a sigh and said, "Well, he's got this assistant named Ambrose Tuttle, and they have a storefront on the other side of town. He might be there."

"Thank you. Now, kindly take me there," Roarke said, and she knew this was more an order than a request. Without a word, she struck out across the town square, with Roarke hard on her heels.

As before, the front office was deserted. Roarke frowned at his ward, who recoiled slightly. "Well?"

"They could be in the back," Leslie offered timidly.

Roarke nodded sharply and crossed the room, then checked himself, glanced back at Leslie with a look that suggested she stay nearby to answer any questions, and eased open the door to the back room. Leslie could see Tattoo at the back wall, emptying envelopes from a large wire basket into a mail sack; Roarke peered around the door at Ambrose Tuttle, stepped silently inside, let Leslie in, and deliberately slammed the door.

Tattoo leaped half a foot and whipped around, his face filled with shock. Ambrose cranked around, almost as startled as Tattoo; Roarke regarded him with a look of mock apology and then smiled at Tattoo. "Hi, boss," Tattoo ventured.

"Well, Tattoo, I must say, you've been quite elusive today," Roarke observed, his voice surprisingly friendly-sounding. Leslie peered up at him without moving her head, bracing herself for the explosion she knew was coming.

"Oh, well, we were busy," Tattoo offered, smiling broadly back; there was a clear note of panic in his look.

"I see," Roarke said and looked at Ambrose. "Mr. Tuttle?"

"How are you, Mr. Roarke?" said Ambrose nervously.

"Fine, thank you," Roarke replied, all fake joviality.

"Uh, did you come to see the computer?" Ambrose asked.

Roarke started forward. "Actually, I am here for quite a different reason. I thought you would like to be the first to know that I am engaged to be married."

Tattoo moved away from the mail and offered, "That's great."

"Thank you." Ambrose clearly caught Roarke's false cheer and watched warily, eyes darting back and forth between boss and assistant; once he met Leslie's gaze and she bit her lip, making him widen his eyes momentarily in a sort of ocular shrug. Roarke then dropped the bombshell: "To two entirely different women!"

That precipitated guilty glances between Tattoo and Ambrose, which Roarke didn't miss. "I strongly suspect that these marital commitments originated in this very room."

A long silence ensued, broken only by a faint throat-clearing from the Frenchman. Roarke fixed his gaze on him. "Tattoo?"

Tattoo fumbled for only a second. "Ambrose, explain."

_Good old Mr. Pass-the-Buck,_ Leslie thought unexpectedly, but dared not make a sound or even an expression, lest Roarke see. Ambrose gamely gave it his best shot. "Mr. Roarke, it was a mistake," he said straight out. "The computer malfunctioned."

"Oh," Roarke responded, nodding in evident understanding.

"We are very sorry, boss. But maybe you have a suggestion," Tattoo offered. Leslie closed her eyes. _Oh no…_

"Yes, I do!" Roarke barked in a sudden fury; both Tattoo and Leslie jumped, and even Ambrose flinched. "You must find other suitable husbands for Miss Mills and Miss Wilson at once!"

Again the room fell deathly silent, while Ambrose and Tattoo looked warily at each other; Ambrose's eyebrows flicked up and down in a _Well, you heard him_ gesture. No one moved, till Roarke took a seat on the corner of the table and folded his arms across his chest again, gathering control and regarding Ambrose with another sarcastic smile. "Do you think your computer is capable of that, Mr. Tuttle?"

"Well, I sure hope so, Mr. Roarke." The blond man looked dubious.

"I hope so too, Mr. Tuttle," Roarke replied meaningfully.

"As I recall from her profile, Miss Mills was the bouncy, all-American-type girl," Ambrose began, a little stiltedly, his nervousness showing through his voice. Roarke and Tattoo both nodded, and Tattoo gave Roarke an A-OK sign, which just made Roarke exasperated. While Ambrose turned to the computer and made a few adjustments, probably mostly for show, Leslie shifted her weight uncomfortably.

Roarke saw her. "Would you like to sit down, Leslie?" he offered, indicating the chair.

"Yeah…thanks, Mr. Roarke," she said and wasted no time doing so. Somewhat relieved when Roarke smiled at her, she smiled back and joined her guardian and Tattoo in watching Ambrose play with his pet computer.

A series of little beeps, gradually growing in volume, emanated from the machine, suggesting to Leslie a cut-rate Artoo Detoo from _Star Wars_; Ambrose stepped back just as a large red bulb on the front of another panel began flashing, accompanied by a goofy whooping sound that increased in pitch and rapidity. An IBM card abruptly shot out of a slot directly below the red bulb and landed in a metal tray.

Ambrose picked it out and handed it to Roarke. "Now this gentleman should be ideally suited for Miss Mills," he said.

Roarke and Leslie both looked at the card; there were two pictures on this one, one of Claudia Mills and the other of a muscular, mustachioed fellow wearing a football uniform. Tattoo edged a couple of steps closer, but when Roarke looked up at him, he stopped short, his curiosity going unsatisfied. Leslie winked at him, trying to let him know she would tell him later what she'd seen.

"Well," said Roarke, with another broad fake smile, "at least that will leave me with only one fiancée." Tattoo beamed nervously back. "However, you will also find a suitable husband for Miss Wilson, won't you, Mr. Tuttle?"

Expansive now that he'd had a success, Ambrose said, "Oh, sure!" He pushed a button somewhere, and once again the computer bleeped and flashed and whooped, spitting out a second IBM card. Roarke rolled his eyes at the whooping noises and Leslie grinned.

Ambrose took the new card and gave it to Roarke, who peered at it in silence for a moment before nodding. Then he inquired, "Mr. Tuttle, are you quite certain that this is the only gentleman on Fantasy Island who will fulfill the high standards set down by your matrimonial services?" Leslie tried to get a look at the card, but Roarke was holding it in such a way that she couldn't see the photos on it.

"The computer never lies," Tattoo said with great self-assurance.

"Well, then, congratulations, Mr. Tuttle, and all the happiness in the world," Roarke said, smiling broadly and getting up to heartily shake Ambrose's hand. Ambrose stared blankly at him while Leslie gasped, instantly realizing what had happened.

"What?" Ambrose bleated.

Roarke showed him the card, and the second he saw the picture, Ambrose's eyes bugged out in almost cartoon fashion, making Leslie burst into the laughter she'd spent the better part of an hour damming up. Ambrose Tuttle himself was deemed to be the perfect match for Harriet Wilson!

"Me? And Harriet Wilson?" Ambrose exclaimed, stunned.

Roarke nodded. "Yes!"

Tattoo's smile dropped away with a nearly audible thud; Ambrose looked broadsided. "But I don't want to get married!"

"But Mr. Tuttle," Roarke protested, "Tattoo and I have already agreed that marriage is a most sacred and cherished institution. Oh, and I will arrange for you a most marvelous ceremony; I assure you, you will be very pleased." On Ambrose's trapped expression and Tattoo's open-mouthed astonishment, Roarke opened the door, smiling, looking much happier. "And now, gentlemen, good day. Come along, Leslie."

She followed him obediently out the door, mouthing "good luck!" at Tattoo, who only rolled his eyes. To tell the truth, she was frankly glad the problem had been solved, although there was still one very large question nagging at her…


	15. Chapter 15

§ § § - February 20, 1983

Back at the main house, she and Roarke had both just completed their respective paperwork when someone pounded on the door, and Roarke called again, "Come in." The door instantly burst open and Beau Gillette shot in, rounding the half-wall and stumbling down the steps without even looking to see whether he'd trip and fall. His face was a study in frantic worry.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Gillette?" inquired Roarke, with that uncanny talent he had for massive understatement.

"I'll say there is," Gillette exploded. "I can't understand what's happenin'. My family ain't takin' too kindly to Jenny, I don't think. Y'see, it was like this. I got a message from Cousin Lindy sayin' she thought there was somethin' wrong with Mama, so I went to see her, lickety-split-like. Lindy was all upset and said she needed some comfortin'…" Gillette turned ruddy. "Well, if y'see what I mean, Mr. Roarke, her _comfortin'_ was more like lovemakin'. She shoved me onto the ground and started kissin' me. And of course, who should come along at just the wrong time, but Jenny! She said she never wanted to see either me or my 'awful family' again—that's what she called 'em!"

"Oh, I see," said Roarke, settling down on the edge of the desktop.

"I've never seen Jenny this upset. I mean, she won't even speak to me!"

"Well, this is exactly the way your family planned it," Roarke told him. Gillette, who had begun to pace, stopped and stared at him. "They feel threatened, you see. The more Miss Casey dominates your mind and heart, the less real they become. And they want to stay, Mr. Gillette. They want to stay at any cost."

"Well then, you—you're tellin' me that, if I wanna hold onto Jenny, I can't have my family, is that right?"

Roarke smiled, then asked, gently but pointedly, "Isn't it about time you realized that your act is not your life, Mr. Gillette? Miss Casey is real, and she loves you, not your act." Gillette had begun pacing slowly again, staring at Roarke with some skepticism, but at least listening to him. "You must choose which you really want—your family, or Miss Casey."

"Well, it's Jenny, you know that," Gillette said, as if any fool should have known that going in. "But how do I do it?"

"By simply realizing that your family needs you far more than you need them." Gillette eyed him oddly, and Roarke nodded, rising. "Think about it, Mr. Gillette. And I have the feeling you will then tell Miss Casey the truth."

Gillette let it sink in for a second or two, then nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Roarke."

"Yes, sir," Roarke responded, smiling. He and Leslie watched Gillette leave; then she peered at her guardian.

"It's a shame he couldn't have both," she ventured.

"Leslie, despite all that you have experienced in the past three years, all that you have seen and heard and confronted, you know perfectly well that no one can live permanently in a fantasy world," Roarke admonished her gently. "Even here, fantasies don't last forever."

"Some do," Leslie contradicted, feeling slightly smug. "I still remember that Jungle Man fantasy a couple of years ago. David Farley's living permanently in _his_ fantasy world."

Roarke chuckled. "Very occasionally, I make an exception for a special case. Mr. Farley was unable to make a living in this world in any way except as Jungle Man, and even that was taken away from him; so he took the only recourse he knew. And I suspect he is much happier as Jungle Man than as David Farley. Perhaps he was meant to be." He took in her slightly confused look and grinned. "However, Mr. Gillette's situation is far different, and retreating to his imaginary family, forsaking his career and his fiancée in the real world, are simply not options for him. He knows it, and he made the right choice."

Leslie nodded. "I see what you're saying. Well, I just hope he can beat back those imaginary people and they go back to wherever they came from."

Roarke smiled and opened his mouth as if to say something else, but then he caught himself when he noticed something on the terrace. Leslie's gaze followed his, and they found themselves watching Tattoo drift slowly into the study, staring straight ahead of him, face devoid of all expression. "Tattoo?" Roarke said.

Tattoo didn't respond, just kept on walking till he bumped into the back of Leslie's chair. She took the chance to wave her hand in front of his eyes, but this had no effect; in fact, Tattoo simply pivoted ninety degrees to his right and wandered on ahead, threading his way through the room. Leslie jumped to her feet and appealed, "Mr. Roarke, can't you do something? He looks like he's in some kind of trance!"

Roarke reached down and caught Tattoo's arm, stopping him. The Frenchman tried to keep walking, but Roarke held him firmly in place till he stopped moving altogether; then Roarke reached down, leveled a hand about an inch in front of Tattoo's eyes, and snapped his fingers. Tattoo reared back instinctively, blinking, then looked around and frowned in perplexity. "How'd I get in here?"

"Finger-snapping," Leslie muttered. "I should've thought of that."

"Why on earth were you wandering around the island like a wind-up doll?" Roarke wanted to know.

Tattoo thought back. "Well, the last thing I remember is talking to Claudia Mills," he said slowly. "I was trying to introduce her to that football player, Bryan Sims…except she said she's never been much of a football fan. But the computer said they're a perfect match. So…" His face cleared suddenly, and then he looked sheepish. "I tried to do what you do, boss. I told her to look deep into my eyes so I could get her to do what she oughta be doing…and that's the last thing I remember till I found myself in here."

Roarke and Leslie traded merry looks. "You should've known better than that," Leslie said, laughing. "Trances don't work with anybody except Mr. Roarke."

"By the way, I don't put people into a trance," Roarke pointed out. "I merely sway them gently to the decision they need to make."

This time Tattoo and Leslie looked at each other, and in perfect harmony they said, _"Suuuuuuure_ you do." Roarke shot them admonishing looks, but they both just laughed.

‡ ‡ ‡

Beau Gillette had already planned to put on a performance for Roarke's guests, but it was clear enough to Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie that there was more to this particular show than just entertaining an audience. They had decided to eat at the supper club, which was a fairly rare treat for Leslie. Tattoo seemed troubled, though. "What's wrong, my friend?" asked Roarke at last.

Tattoo sighed. "Something funny's going on, and I don't understand it. Remember when I told you I was going to introduce Claudia Mills to Bryan Sims?" Roarke and Leslie nodded. "Well, after I left the office this afternoon, I was trying to take Harriet Wilson over to introduce her to Ambrose…and we saw Bryan Sims coming along. Now Miss Wilson didn't want to meet Ambrose anyway, but once she saw Bryan Sims, she was a goner. She just went right over and started talking to him, and then they walked off together!"

"Oh," said Roarke with interest, glancing at Leslie.

"And I'll tell you something else," Tattoo went on, gaining steam. "I went back to the Ideal Mate Encounter Service to talk to Ambrose about those matches, and what did I find? He was in the back with Miss Mills, and they were both looking at the computers! They were so deep into those machines, I couldn't get their attention at all. And the weirdest part is, they'd stop and hold hands every so often."

"Oh, that's really cute," Leslie commented.

Tattoo rolled his eyes. _"Cute,"_ he snorted. "It doesn't make any sense! That's not the way the computer did it! Miss Mills was supposed to be perfect for Bryan Sims, and Miss Wilson was supposed to be perfect for Ambrose! I don't get it at all!"

Leslie grinned. "Maybe computers aren't all that smart after all," she offered, which made Tattoo gape at her. But before either he or Roarke could comment, the lights dimmed, and the stage curtains parted, revealing the same backdrop and props that had been there that morning when Roarke had brought Beau Gillette's imaginary family to life. Beau stood on stage behind the mike, under a spotlight; the audience turned toward the stage and broke into applause. At the same time, Jenny Casey paused beside their table, looking a little lost. Roarke leaned forward and offered her the fourth chair at their table; she smiled and took it, greeting Leslie when Roarke introduced her.

"Thank y'all, thanks so much," Gillette said with a smile, faintly tinged with a nervousness that only Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie detected. "It's real good to see all you folks here tonight, enjoyin' this wonderful Fantasy Island. Mr. Roarke sure runs some operation here, huh? Let's give him a hand." Roarke smilingly acknowledged the applause, in which Leslie and Tattoo joined, before Gillette cleared his throat. "Well, tonight's a special performance, and I was more'n glad to agree when Mr. Roarke asked me." He grinned, swept a look around the room, and launched into his routine.

As he talked, waitresses came around and cleared supper dishes from tables; Roarke ordered drinks for the four of them, all nonalcoholic mixes of tropical fruit juices. By now, even Jenny was relaxed; they were all enjoying Gillette's act.

"…and then Mama finally says, 'Well, we've had enough, and now we're gonna give up.' " Chuckles greeted this, and Roarke and Jenny smiled broadly at each other; Roarke took a sip of his drink, while Leslie absently wiped the condensation from her glass with the little red napkin she had been given. "Some of the women're tougher than the men." That met with at least one "oh yeah!" of recognition, which made Leslie grin; Gillette grinned too. "Now, you take Rita Bellew. Now I guarantee it, there's a gal that could drink an' dance any of us under the table, and then get up at two o'clock and help ya load your semi." There was more laughter; Leslie glanced idly around the room and only then recognized three people sitting at a table near the front of the room—Mama, Uncle Jack and Cousin Lindy, the three imaginary family members Roarke had brought to life that morning. "So naturally, she got the job drivin' the truck, and I got fired."

At this, Mama stood up at the front table, cutting off the laughter that had begun to well up, and called out, "No, honey, you didn't get fired. You quit—just like you're fixin' to do tonight." She started to move out from behind the table; Uncle Jack, banjo in hand, got up too, and Lindy followed suit. The audience began to murmur, watching the trio climb onto the stage to join a faintly bewildered Gillette. Mama peered at him and announced, "I figure it was about time these folks met your family."

Roarke, Tattoo, Leslie and Jenny exchanged worried glances; Jenny looked as if she might eventually break down into tears, but there was a spark of determination in her eyes, too. Her worried stare slowly gained fire as Gillette's "family" carried on. Gillette stuttered, completely derailed, and stared at Uncle Jack as he started playing his banjo and Lindy and Mama began to dance to it. There was some uncertain laughter, but Leslie could see that most of the audience was a little confused.

Jenny shifted restlessly in her seat. "Mr. Roarke, can't you see what they're trying to do to Beau?" she demanded.

"Oh yes, Miss Casey," Roarke said, "their intentions are quite clear. If they win now, he will never be able to separate fantasy from reality."

"Well, you have to stop them!" Jenny exclaimed indignantly.

Roarke said, "I'm afraid I can't, Miss Casey. Only he can stop them—his mind, and his love for you." Jenny looked hard at him for a moment; then, looking fed up, she arose and headed deliberately for the stage. Roarke, displaying his ingrained old-world manners, half rose from his own chair, then settled back into it as she walked away. Leslie put her glass on the table and turned to her guardian.

"I hope there isn't going to be a fight," she said.

"There may well be," Roarke said. "At the very least, a battle of wills—and when you consider Mr. Gillette's 'family', it could become physical."

Onstage, Lindy remarked brightly, "The last time I was in Fort Worth, Texas, I entered the Dolly Parton lookalike contest."

"Lindy took first prize for lookin' like herself," Mama chimed in, still jigging merrily; the audience chortled, but Leslie, Tattoo and Roarke only looked at one another. Mama let out a loud cackle; Gillette stared at her, totally at sea, and then saw Jenny standing nearby, just offstage and in the shadows where his family didn't yet see her. She gave him an encouraging nod, silently urging him to take his act back.

Gillette glanced at Mama, once more at Jenny, and then took a breath and glared at Mama. "I want you off my stage," he ordered angrily. "I know you're tryin' to hurt me, but why're you tryin' to wreck my act?"

"Honey, we _are_ the act," Mama yelled cheerfully. "We always have been!" And they just went right on picking and dancing.

Jenny walked onstage and grasped his shoulders. "Beau, don't give in to them! Our love is stronger than all of them put together."

They stood gazing hard at each other, while Mama, Uncle Jack and Lindy watched, all three beginning to look distinctly apprehensive. Jenny nodded once, her eyes wide and pleading, yet encouraging; and it gave Gillette new strength. He turned and yelled angrily at his family, "All right, now that is about far enough!"

Uncle Jack ended the song on the banjo, and Mama and Lindy fell still; they all stared at him, the women looking frightened, Jack with a bleak look. Gillette turned to the audience and said, "I apologize for this interruption, but that won't happen again, because…well, after tonight, my family's not gonna be in my act anymore." Slowly, Mama, Jack and Lindy began to back off, toward the places they'd been sitting or standing when they'd first come to life. "And the reason is, well…they're not my family, and they never were. Well, not my real family." Leslie watched Mama settle into her rocking chair in slow motion, looking betrayed. "I'll admit that sometimes, boy, it woulda been real nice to have a mama to tuck me in and tell me stories, or an Uncle Jack to teach me to play the banjo, or a pretty cousin to teach—well, you know what pretty cousins teach." He chuckled self-consciously; meantime, the three figures gradually faded away right there in front of the audience. All the while, Jenny watched them disappear, as if making sure they were really leaving.

"But, uh…truth of the matter is, the only family I got in the whole wide world is right here. Yeah, I love you, Jen." He squeezed Jenny close, and Leslie smiled broadly, watching Jenny's own watery smile.

"You won, Beau," she said. "You won."

"I loved them, too…I…but I guess there's a time in every man's life when he's got to leave one family and move on to a new one." He looked up and took in the entire audience. "Well, I thank you folks for bein' here…good luck, god bless, and come see ol' Beau now 'n' then. Thank you so much." He slid the mike back into the stand while the audience responded with applause and loud cheers; Beau Gillette and Jenny Casey left the stage arm in arm, and Leslie watched Roarke raise his drink in silent toast.

§ § § - February 21, 1982

Tattoo was out the entire day on Sunday, apparently conferring with Ambrose Tuttle at the Ideal Mate Encounter Service. Leslie had to admit to herself that she was relieved when Roarke asked her to stay at the house and sort both incoming and outgoing mail, as well as taking calls, while he made some rounds; she had long since made up her mind that, no matter how desperate she might ever get for a date, she was never going through a computer. Tattoo had said computers never lied; after the story he'd told them the previous evening at the supper club, she no longer believed that.

To her surprise—and Roarke's too, for that matter—Tattoo appeared for lunch, looking dejected. "Why the long face, my friend?" Roarke inquired.

Tattoo shook his head without looking up from his plate. "Aw, it's a bust, boss. It's all through. The whole thing's over."

"What's over?" Leslie asked.

"The Ideal Mate On-coon-tair Service, that's what. I waited all morning for Ambrose to show up, but he never did. I spent it all tearing up all those cards with your picture on them, boss, and throwing them away. And the whole time I was thinking of Ambrose and Claudia, and Bryan Sims and Harriet. If the computer could first match up all our lady clients with you, boss, and then it could match the wrong people together…then there's no hope for it at all. So I think it's time to close the place down."

"I'm sorry," Leslie said, hoping she sounded convincing enough to fool Tattoo, when in fact she thought it was the best idea he'd had all weekend. "But look at it this way—you already have a job as Mr. Roarke's assistant, so what would you need a side business for?"

Tattoo shrugged. "Hmm…maybe you're right. But it was for Ambrose more than me, really. He wanted to have a business where he could use his computers that he loves so much, you know?"

Leslie nodded, and Roarke made a "hmm" sound through the napkin he was using. "Well, my friend, there are plenty of things Mr. Tuttle could do with his computers, don't you think? The island hospital is beginning to computerize, and I'm sure they would be more than happy to hire Mr. Tuttle as computer consultant. I hardly think there's any need for you to feel sorry for him. And unless I miss my guess, computers will soon be coming into their own anyhow, so Mr. Tuttle should have an extremely brilliant future ahead of him. Now, is that reason to mourn?"

Tattoo had been staring at Roarke in great surprise throughout; now he grinned a bit sheepishly and shook his head. "No, I guess not, boss. When you put it that way, it makes a lot of sense. Thanks for cheering me up." Then he seemed to catch himself, and his smile drooped. "Only problem is, I still have to tear up all those cards. We had two whole mailbags full of those things!"

Roarke and Leslie laughed, and Roarke offered, "Well, Leslie has caught up with our own mail enough that I believe I can spare her for the afternoon. She could call a friend or two, and perhaps your work will go more quickly with their help."

"Sure, Lauren and Maureen live right in town," said Leslie. "I'll call them right after lunch and see if they're willing to help."

By about three or so, with Leslie's, Lauren's and Maureen's assistance, Tattoo had completed his task, and dismissed the three girls for the afternoon, closing up and locking the building, since Ambrose Tuttle had never shown up. Tattoo had voiced Leslie's surmise that he was probably with Claudia Mills. Maureen and Lauren had both expressed curiosity over what the business was for in the first place, which was all the encouragement Leslie had needed to tell them about the escapades she'd witnessed that were connected with the Ideal Mate Encounter Service. She had tried to demur at first, when Tattoo had speared her with a look that promised fatal retribution if she said anything; but then Maureen had seen his expression and protested, "Aw, come on, Tattoo, she'd be telling us all about it at lunch tomorrow anyway. What difference does it make if she talks about it now?"

Tattoo had growled, then muttered, "Oh, all right, but you better leave out the embarrassing parts." He had then stalked into the front office, leaving the girls alone in the back room shredding IBM cards.

They'd watched him go; then Lauren had asked eagerly, "What embarrassing parts?"

"I'll save those for tomorrow, when Tattoo can't be around to censor my words," Leslie had promised with a grin, and her friends had laughed and agreed to the tamer version for the time being. It had been an enjoyable interlude, and Leslie was willing enough to return home and tackle whatever mail still remained to be sorted.

After supper, Tattoo went home for the evening, and Leslie gathered the last two or three stacks of outgoing letters to be slid into envelopes and sealed. Roarke, who for a change was caught up on the paperwork that never ended in a business like his, was now seated on the settee under the shuttered windows, rewarding himself with a favorite book while she worked. The French shutters stood open to the evening breeze, and they could hear an ever-swelling chorus of crickets, backed up occasionally by a night crier somewhere in the near-distant jungle. It was very peaceful, very relaxing.

That is, until someone knocked; Leslie looked up, but Roarke merely called absently, "Yes, come in." At his summons, the inner-foyer door opened and closed, and at the top of the steps appeared Harriet Wilson, dressed as if for dinner out in a pretty turquoise sheath with a dove-gray shawl draped over one arm. She paused to gaze at Roarke, who had gone back to his book; Leslie, who'd begun stuffing envelopes again, watched Harriet covertly through her bangs, keeping her head down as if concentrating on her work. She had to fight a smile when she saw Harriet's expression: she looked a little sad, as if she were about to impart some very bad news on someone. After a moment, Harriet drew in a fortifying breath and stepped down into the study, going directly to Roarke.

When he realized who it was, Roarke hastily stood up, closing his book. "Oh, do come in, Harriet…please have a seat, won't you?" he urged, all smiles. Leslie, very surprised, abandoned all pretense at working and watched openly.

"I apologize if I seem to have been neglecting you, but you see, unfortunately, some of the preparations have been extremely time-consuming…" Roarke began. Leslie stared at him, wondering why he was going to such lengths to prevaricate; he'd done nothing whatsoever towards arranging a wedding for anyone, least of all himself! Harriet tried to protest, but Roarke just went right on: "Unfortunately for me—"

"Mr. Roarke," Harriet broke in, silencing him at last. She opened her mouth, looked away, then said as if making a horrible confession, "There's something I have to tell you."

Roarke regarded her with interest, then prompted very softly, "What is it, Harriet?"

Harriet's mouth gaped open and she turned back to him. "I can't marry you!"

Leslie nearly choked on the laugh she had to swallow when she saw the very distinct look of relief flash across Roarke's features before he schooled them into a convincing look of shock. "What?" he whispered.

"You see, I-I've met another man…a man who's suffered a great deal of pain. A man who needs someone to look after him…to take care of him." Something about Harriet's mien made Leslie think of a very proper Victorian maiden trying to be as gentle and polite as she possibly could while jilting her longtime betrothed. As Harriet once again turned her head aside to gaze at the floor, Leslie caught the amusement whisking over Roarke's face.

"Miss Wilson, I can only say that, uh…" He hesitated, allowing sadness to creep over his features. "I admire your courage for coming here and telling me personally, rather than allowing me to hear it from…" He sighed heavily, and Leslie covered her mouth again. "…a total stranger."

Harriet fell for it completely, reaching up to touch his face as he pretended to struggle with an enormous sorrow. "Oh…oh," she murmured, herself looking anguished. "Thank you for understanding." Roarke merely shook his head a little, face falling. Leslie rolled her eyes, delighted and wishing she could laugh; she'd had no idea her guardian was such a talented actor. She gazed ardently on, both hands still firmly over her mouth.

Harriet's face was a mask of agonized sympathy, and Leslie expected her to offer more platitudes, but instead she blurted, "Goodbye, Mr. Roarke," and stood up all of a sudden. Roarke arose with her.

"Goodbye, Miss Wilson," he said and even bowed a little to her. Harriet grabbed her shawl and wasted no time leaving, as if under the premise that lingering would merely prolong the agony. The moment the door closed behind her, he let his head fall back and drew in a breath, expelling it with one huge _whew!_ of abject relief. Leslie promptly exploded with laughter, and he joined right in, raising a hand to his forehead for a moment and then more or less collapsing onto the settee.

"That was beautiful," Leslie cried, actually brushing tears from her eyes. "Oh wow, Mr. Roarke, that deserved an Oscar." She caught her breath and fell back in her chair, half slouching, weak with mirth. "Boy, if I hadn't known better, I'd've fallen for it myself."

"I certainly hoped I had managed to convince her," Roarke said, chuckling. "It _was_ rather melodramatic, wasn't it?" She nodded, and they spent a couple more minutes expending the last of their glee.

"Of course," Leslie said when she could speak again, "that still leaves you with one semi-official fiancée. I wonder where she is."

Roarke consulted the grandfather clock. "Well, it's not too late; why don't you come with me and we'll find Miss Mills. You can finish that when we get back and then go to bed for the night. It's been quite a weekend."

"That's for sure," she agreed, and they exchanged grins as they left the house.

They found not only Claudia Mills, but also Ambrose Tuttle and Tattoo, seated all together at a table in the open-air dining room. They approached the table and Roarke said, "Well, I trust you're enjoying yourselves."

"Mr. Roarke!" Ambrose said in surprise, startled out of a long mesmerized stare into Claudia Mills' eyes. Claudia blinked and gazed up at him.

"Oh, Mr. Roarke…could I speak to you for a few minutes?" she asked.

"Of course, Claudia," he agreed.

"Privately?" Claudia added, glancing at Ambrose and Tattoo. "It's very personal."

"Will you excuse us?" Roarke said, and Claudia arose when he pulled out her chair. Leslie took the empty seat between Ambrose and Tattoo, knowing full well what was coming. She wouldn't have minded being able to overhear, but having witnessed Harriet Wilson's overwrought "breakup" with Roarke, she figured she'd have to be satisfied with that. She had more than enough to tell her friends about at lunch tomorrow.

It didn't take long; Leslie couldn't resist watching, and grinned widely to herself at Roarke's beautifully feigned sorrow and disappointment. Claudia shortly got up and came back to the table, and she and Ambrose went right back to staring dreamily into each other's eyes and holding hands across the table. Tattoo watched, smiling. "I guess we're just extra baggage here," Leslie murmured to him.

"I guess so," Tattoo agreed.

"And hey, look over there, there's Harriet Wilson with Bryan Sims. See, look, you did fulfill their fantasies. I'm sure they'll all be married within the year."

Tattoo peered in the direction she indicated, and his smile got wider; his eyes flew open with surprise and relief. "Hey, you're right! It really did work out!" They grinned at each other, and he slid from his chair. "Come on, let's let them be alone."

They hurried over to the table where Claudia had left Roarke, who watched them coming with an amused little smile. "Boss, I did it," Tattoo blurted excitedly. "I told you I would do it!"

"Yes," Roarke agreed, "you did indeed, Tattoo, yes. And now tell me, what is this I hear about you taking a crash course in swimming lessons?" Leslie's head came up sharply at that; she certainly hadn't been the one to tell him about it!

"You mean you meant you were going to _take_ swimming lessons and not _give_ them?" she exclaimed. "Oh geez!"

Tattoo contrived to look innocent. "Would you believe it if I told you I wanted to become a frogman?" he asked, making motions of cleaving through water.

"Not for a minute, no," Roarke retorted briskly. Tattoo's face fell and he slumped into a chair. Roarke shook his head. "Frogman," he muttered, and then started to chuckle in spite of himself. That set off both Leslie and Tattoo, the latter sheepish but relieved.

§ § § - February 22, 1982

Beau Gillette and Jenny Casey were the first to arrive at the plane dock on Monday morning, and Gillette extended a large brown ten-gallon hat. "Tattoo, my friend, I want you to have this to remember me by. It's an old Texas custom."

"Oh, thank you!" Tattoo exclaimed, and immediately donned the hat, only to have it swallow up most of his head. Leslie sputtered and started to giggle; Gillette and Jenny glanced at each other and carefully stifled their own amusement before composing themselves, though Gillette winked at Leslie.

"Mr. Roarke," Jenny said, "Beau and I would like to thank you for everything."

"I'm very happy for both of you," Roarke responded, smiling broadly. "Goodbye, Mr. Gillette." The men shook hands, and Jenny followed suit; farewells were exchanged, and all the while Tattoo just stood there under the hat, as if he'd fallen asleep standing up. Roarke happened to notice him, and urged, "Wave, Tattoo, wave!" Upon which, Tattoo rotated almost 180 degrees and began to flap his hand in more or less any direction he fancied; Roarke allowed himself to share a chuckle with the giggling Leslie before signaling at one of the native girls. "Uh, Tattoo, may I?"

"Sure," Tattoo agreed, and Roarke freed him from the oversized headgear, examining it with interest.

"Oh, it's a beautiful hat," he remarked. "Uh…take this to Tattoo's cottage, please."

"But boss," Tattoo protested. Leslie blinked; it seemed he would have willingly stood there and let that hat cover his entire head all the way through their farewells!

"We'll have it sized down to fit you, don't worry," Roarke assured him. "It's a beautiful hat." His chuckle was a bit forced, but Tattoo seemed mollified all the same, thanking him with genuine gratitude. At this point the second rover drew up and discharged the two couples Tattoo had managed to bring together.

"Well, I guess this is goodbye, Mr. Roarke," Harriet Wilson said, extending her hand; Roarke shook it. "And thanks for everything—especially for being such a good sport."

Roarke brushed this off with a smile, accepting thanks from Bryan Sims and then congratulating him and Harriet on their wedding very early that morning. Ambrose Tuttle and Claudia Mills stepped up to take their places.

"We'd like to thank you, too," Claudia said, and again Roarke smiled, shaking hands.

"This is goodbye for a while, Tattoo," Ambrose said, "but you keep an eye on my computer for me, will ya?"

"I will," Tattoo promised. "I've got plans for it." That got him apprehensive and suspicious looks from both Roarke and Leslie. Quickly, Roarke bid the couple goodbye; they returned the farewells, shook hands, and headed for the plane behind the newlyweds.

"Okay, cough it up," Leslie said, folding her arms over her chest.

"Tell us, Tattoo, exactly what kind of plans do you have for the computer, huh?" said Roarke, his tone indicating he wasn't sure he really wanted to know.

"Well, everything came out all right, didn't it?" Tattoo asked.

"After taking a somewhat torturous course, they did, yes," Roarke said with a sharp look at him.

"Then I don't see anymore why I should go out of business," said Tattoo.

"Because," retorted Roarke, "we don't want to have any more torture around here, that's why!" Tattoo blinked at him and Leslie smirked; they then turned for their final waves to their guests, while Tattoo sighed deeply and Roarke started to laugh to himself.


	16. Chapter 16

§ § § - April 21, 2007

By the time Roarke and Leslie completed their narrative, they had acted out the drippy breakup in the study, with Leslie taking the part of Harriet Wilson and Roarke playing himself. They left everyone roaring with glee; they themselves, particularly Leslie, were having trouble holding back their own mirth, and were glad to join in at the end. Michiko grabbed a napkin from the table and dabbed at her eyes. "Oh, Leslie, that was exactly what I needed," she sputtered delightedly. "I don't remember laughing that hard when you first told us about it at lunch that Monday."

"Well, you kind of had to be there," Leslie admitted through her lingering chortles, resuming her seat beside Christian.

"So you thought the whole computer-dating idea was a complete disaster, did you?" Christian teased, coughing slightly as he tried to speak through his lingering laughter. "I suppose at the time, you had good cause. I can only imagine how primitive those machines must have been. The stone age of computers."

"Yeah, that's true, but of course, that's all there was back then. Boy, what a weekend. I probably hadn't laughed that much in ages. And before anybody asks, Father still hasn't told me his first name, and I doubt he ever will."

"Oh rats, and I was just gonna ask," Myeko said and snapped her fingers in mock disappointment, setting off more laughter. When it finally died out, they took a moment to sip at beverages and calm themselves down again.

Then Michiko leaned eagerly forward. "I need more. Laughter turns out to be addictive. There must have been some other funny fantasies."

"We've had our share," Roarke allowed, smiling. "Can you think of any particular one you'd like to recount, Leslie?"

She considered it, snuggling against Christian when he slid his arm around her shoulders and drew her closer. Then something popped into her head and she lit up, her lips stretching again. "Aha, here's one. Pure chaos. You'll love it, Michiko."

§ § § - February 19, 1983

Leslie might have expected any one of a dozen different reactions from her guardian and Tattoo when a new guest stepped out of the seaplane's hatch, but definitely not the one they evinced now. She giggled at them in pure reaction before turning to see who was causing their shocked looks and forward-canted stances. "Is she somebody famous that you two look like that?"

Tattoo shook his head. "It's not that she's famous. It's just…well, that lady looks like she just landed on Mars."

"She's a woman who's done very little traveling outside her native Spain, Tattoo," explained Roarke. "Her name is Miss Maria Margarita Rosario Pilar Martinez Molino Rodriguez Diaz." Even Tattoo reared back at this appellation.

"Say that again?" Leslie blurted.

Roarke shot her a frown, but Tattoo laughed. "Boss, what kind of parents would give eight names to their daughter?"

"Her mother named her, Tattoo, six months before she died. Miss Diaz was then taken in by nuns and raised in a convent."

"Where was her father?" Tattoo asked.

Roarke replied, "Her father and her mother were never married. In fact, her fantasy is to meet him for the very first time." His soft smile faded.

Tattoo frowned in concern. "What's wrong, boss?"

"Possibly a great deal, Tattoo; you see, her father has no idea he even has a daughter… nor is it likely he wants one." On that ominous note, Tattoo and Leslie exchanged glances; then they both followed Roarke's gaze to the dock. A tall man with graying hair, casually dressed in a red shirt with white stripes and khaki pants under a red jacket, strode toward the ground with a purposeful gait.

"That guy looks uptight," Tattoo commented.

"Like he needs a vacation," Leslie added.

"You're both right," said Roarke. "Mr. Alan Daly has spent the last eight years of his life in one of the most brutal prisons in the world."

"You mean he's an ex-con? What did he do?" Tattoo asked.

"That's the tragedy," said Roarke. "Nothing. He was framed."

"Framed? That's terrible!" exclaimed Tattoo.

"Indeed. He also believes that his best friend died in that same prison."

"His fantasy is to clear his name?" Tattoo guessed.

"No, Tattoo, his fantasy is to start a new life, by finding a fabulous lost treasure which a fellow prisoner told him was buried here on Fantasy Island."

"I think he's gonna need a trustworthy guide," Tattoo said, with an expression that told Leslie he was about to volunteer. "Like me."

Roarke regarded him with a glimmer of amusement. "Yes, that's right, Tattoo…but I'm afraid he'll need much more than that to get him through this weekend. Much more." He was still gazing worriedly at Alan Daly when his drink arrived, and he raised his glass in toast, as always. Maria Diaz looked startled at first and Alan Daly seemed quizzical; but they both smiled when Roarke welcomed them and raised their own drinks in response.

‡ ‡ ‡

Maria Diaz had had time to change from the short-skirted, off-the-shoulder red dress she'd worn on the plane to another dress in a similar style, this one with a white skirt trimmed in green and a top decorated with diagonal red-and-green stripes. Leslie thought she looked ready for summer—which it always was on Fantasy Island—and began to feel a bit dowdy in comparison, wearing her blouse with its three-quarter-length puffed sleeves and her calf-length ruffled skirt. Self-consciously she unbuttoned the sleeve cuffs and began to push them up her arms, while an oblivious Roarke inquired of their latest guest, "Tell me, Miss Diaz, do you know anything at all about your father?"

Maria tossed her hands into the air. "I only know what you told me before I came here," she said in a Spanish accent just as heavy as Tattoo's French one. "That his name is Charles Woodruff, and that he lives right here on your island." Roarke nodded, and Maria scuttled around the desk. "Is there anything more to know?"

"Well, for one thing, your father holds a high post in the Diplomatic Corps of the United States," Roarke said. "He has a home here, and another one just outside New York City." Leslie presumed, considering Roarke's rules about immigration, that the diplomat's local home was a vacation house.

"My papa is a very smart man, no?" Maria suggested with a broad smile.

Roarke nodded again. "Oh, yes, he is; you can be very proud of him."

"For eight years, I studied music at the conservatory in Madrid," Maria said. "And do you know why?" Leslie noticed that any word she spoke that started with S was preceded by a short-E sound, after the Spanish fashion, so that "smart" and "studied" came out "eh-smart" and "eh-studied." Maria spoke quickly, too, so that Leslie had to pay very careful attention to her speech in order to follow it all, and wondered whether Tattoo could understand her.

"Why?" Roarke prompted, humoring her.

"So that when I meet him, he can be so proud of me."

Roarke smiled and arose. "Well, I can see you're very anxious to begin your fantasy," he remarked, which left Leslie looking for signs of actual anxiety in Maria Diaz, only to find none. "So if you will come with us, Tattoo and Leslie and I will drive you to the Woodruff estate." Tattoo beckoned to Maria to follow him; Roarke and Leslie trailed her, grinning at her excited announcement that she couldn't wait to meet her father.

"Mr. Roarke," she managed to whisper quickly to him as they crossed the veranda to the waiting rover, "you said she's anxious to start her fantasy. She doesn't look anxious to me at all. If she's so excited, why would she be anxious?"

Roarke paused for a few seconds to regard her with resignation; all during her senior year she had been catching him here and there with what to him were minor, nit-picking grammatical and vocabulary corrections. "Don't tell me," he said on a sigh. "This is the latest pet peeve from your teacher, Mr. Benneford, and he's infected you again."

"But he has such good points," Leslie insisted. "When he explained it in class on Thursday, I saw it right away. I mean, I don't get why people say they're anxious to leave on vacation, or anxious to start their fantasies. Anxiety is a negative emotion, see? If you're looking forward to leaving on vacation, why're you anxious about it? What you really mean is, you're eager to leave. Eagerness is a positive emotion, leaving on vacation and starting a fantasy are positive things…so Miss Diaz is _eager_ to start her fantasy, not anxious. You see it, don't you, Mr. Roarke?"

"Yes, yes, I see it very clearly," Roarke said, with a trace of impatience in his voice. "I thank you for the vocabulary lesson, Leslie. Now, if you don't mind, I am _eager_ to transport Miss Diaz to Mr. Woodruff's estate so that she can begin the fantasy she is so very _eager_ to start." With that, he continued on his way off the porch; Leslie sighed, rolled her eyes to herself and followed him, deciding maybe it was best to remain silent. She spent the ride to the Woodruff estate rolling up her uncooperative sleeves.

As Leslie had expected, they wound up stopping at the massive front entrance of one of the ten or so estates in the Enclave neighborhood. This particular one was the biggest one on the lane; it tended to overwhelm on closer inspection, because it was largely hidden from casual passersby by mature trees and tall hedges. Roarke, though, was quite at ease as he stepped up and rang the doorbell; they heard its elegant two-note chime resound inside the house, and Maria bounced excitedly up and down on her toes.

A tuxedoed man with gray hair and a neatly trimmed white beard opened the door, and Roarke smiled. "Oh, hello, we'd like to speak with Mr. Woodruff, if we may—"

"Roarke!" exclaimed a voice from nearby, and their heads cranked to the right, where a distinguished-looking man about Roarke's height hurried into the entry to greet them properly. His silver hair framed a face that was still handsome, and Leslie imagined that in his youth he must have been quite the lady-killer. "What a surprise!" He shook hands with Roarke, then Tattoo, and winked at Leslie.

"You've got a bigger one coming," Tattoo said.

"This is him?" Maria inquired, indicating Woodruff with a quick glance.

"Yes. Maria Diaz, may I present Mr. Charles Woodruff, your father."

Woodruff started to respond in a jovial manner, but when the last two words sank in, his face filled with consternation. The overjoyed Maria Diaz didn't even notice. "Papa," she cried. _"¡Ay, Papacito!"_ She rushed to him and hugged him, lapsing into rapid Spanish, then planted a kiss on his cheek. Woodruff gaped at them all with enormous eyes.

"I told you," Tattoo said, earning a startled look from Woodruff. All the while Maria fawned joyously over her newfound father; the butler looked on stoically, but this was not true of the thin, stern-looking gray-haired woman standing a few feet away, dressed in a severe suit of cardinal red. She was watching in disbelief.

"Well, we'll leave you to get acquainted," Roarke said genially. "I'll be back in an hour to answer any questions that may come to your mind. Good day. Tattoo, Leslie?" They followed him out and headed down the steps to the car as the butler shut the door behind them, closing out Maria's happy exclamations in Spanish.

"Wow," said Leslie when they'd all slid into the car.

Roarke eyed her in the mirror. "You were right, Leslie," he said ironically. "She most certainly was eager to begin her fantasy." Tattoo threw them both bewildered looks, but Leslie snickered appreciatively while Roarke started the car and got them on their way.

Roarke dropped off Tattoo temporarily at his cottage, and by the time they got over to the bungalow where Alan Daly was staying, Leslie had tucked her long skirt up, rolling the hem underneath itself several times till when she got out of the car, it was a couple of inches above her knees, at least in front. Roarke finally noticed what she'd been up to. "What are you doing?" he asked, staring at her in pure bewilderment.

She looked up and said, "I thought Miss Diaz's outfits were so cute. She was really dressed for the climate here. How come we have to pretend it's early November?"

"If you're that hot, go back home and change into a sundress. Of course, you'll miss out on our appointment with Mr. Daly," Roarke commented with studied casualness.

Leslie snorted quietly and let the skirt fall. "Never mind," she mumbled and fell into step beside him. Roarke knocked on the bungalow door, and Alan Daly welcomed them inside. They took seats, but Daly himself seemed nervous and was burning off the resultant energy by pacing the floor.

"Mr. Daly, your friend who died in that prison…what was his name?" Roarke asked.

"Loren Robertson," Daly said, pausing to wring one hand with the other. "Haven't thought about him in years. He always had some scheme to make a quick buck. He had a line on some Persian relics…a phony rug dealer. Said we could get rich—all we had to do was smuggle the stuff out of the country, back to the states." He settled down on the sofa beside Roarke, resting his forehead in one hand for a moment before pulling himself back together. "Our last night there, Loren went out to buy some souvenir junk. The cops busted in and arrested me. They discovered a couple of these relics. Heard later on that they made Loren, too. Only they beat him to death trying to make him confess."

Roarke leaned forward. "I'm sorry, Mr. Daly, I didn't mean to scare up painful memories." Just then there was a knock on the door. "Oh, that must be Tattoo. Come in."

The door opened and admitted Tattoo; Daly stared at him, and Leslie, on the other side of her guardian, peered over her shoulder. Tattoo was dressed as if for a safari, in camouflage clothing and a hat and boots, backpack slung over his shoulders. "Tattoo will be your guide," Roarke began, indicating his assistant, and then turning to actually see him. He stared in perplexity as Tattoo approached, wielding something in one hand that looked suspiciously like a whip to Leslie.

"I'm ready for the treasure hunt, boss," Tattoo said with a smile.

"So I see," was all Roarke said, and allowed himself a quick, dubious half-smile.

"Mr. Roarke," Daly broke in, catching their attention, "am I really gonna find this… treasure? All I've got to go on is this story from some crazy old man, a history professor they arrested for politics."

"Oh, I assure you, Mr. Daly, the treasure is here," Roarke confirmed. "It may even contain the legendary Mask of Tenochuatl…made of solid gold and precious jewels. I think this will help you locate it." He slid a rubber band off a parchment in one hand and unrolled it to display to Daly.

"A map?" Daly blurted. "Just as simple as that?" He sat down again and grabbed the map to study it more closely.

"Oh, simple to find, yes," Roarke said, then got that mysterious look about him again. "But I must warn you, legend says that much of the treasure was sacred in nature."

There was a light in Daly's eyes. "This treasure will buy me a new identity—a whole new life," he said fervently. "I've gotta make it."

"I truly hope so, Mr. Daly," Roarke said gravely. "I truly hope so. Tattoo?" He gestured at his assistant, who nodded and started for the door; both Roarke and Daly got up, and Roarke indicated Tattoo. "Good luck, Mr. Daly."

Leslie arose to stand beside her guardian as Daly and Tattoo departed. "There sure seem to be a lot of long-lost legendary treasures buried here," she commented.

Roarke looked at her. "Oh? Perhaps it was simply known as one of the safest possible places in the world to hide such things. Now perhaps, if you truly do wish to change your clothes, we should return home so you can do that."

Leslie considered it a moment or two, then decided she might as well take the chance. "Okay," she agreed. "For some reason it seems really hot today. That dress you gave me for Christmas would be perfect." The garment in question was a sundress that came with a matching short-sleeved bolero jacket.

"I thought you wished to be less overheated," said Roarke in surprise.

"Well, for one thing, that mansion is really elegant, and everybody there's dressed so formally…I don't want to stand out too much," Leslie demurred. "And besides, it's air-conditioned in there—I felt it. If we spend long enough in there, I'll freeze."

Roarke sighed and rolled his eyes once, then smiled, still good-natured. "Well, whatever your reasons, Leslie, I applaud your choice. Just hurry, please."

At the allotted moment, they were back at the Woodruff estate; the butler let them in and Charles Woodruff greeted them, considerably less happy than he'd been the first time they'd arrived. In the elegantly appointed parlor with its white walls and stately gold furnishings, with matching sheer draperies at the windows, waited Maria Diaz, by far the most casually dressed of them all. The butler retreated somewhere, and Roarke and Leslie trailed Woodruff into the parlor. It turned out Maria wasn't there alone; the stern-faced woman in the red suit stood near the fireplace, watching everything sharply.

"So, Mr. Woodruff, do you have any questions I can answer?" Roarke inquired when they had all been seated.

The diplomat hesitated. "Well, before I ask any, I should probably provide a little background information." He arose and began to slowly pace the room as he told his story. "Years ago, when I was starting my career, I was assigned to a little town in Spain. I met and fell in love with a beautiful woman named Marguerita—Marguerita Diaz."

"She was my mama," Maria put in.

"Her parents didn't approve of me," Woodruff said. "They forbade her to see me after they found out about our romance. Shortly after that, I was assigned to a little embassy in the Middle East, and I never saw her again." Maria looked crushed, and made a small sound of distress. "Nor did I ever forget her." His gaze fastened on Maria and grew faraway. "I had no idea she'd had my child."

The woman in red, a Mrs. Pomproy, stepped forward. "Mr. Woodruff…Mr. Woodruff, I submit that this, this woman somehow found out about your moment of youthful indiscretion and fabricated this entire story." She shot Maria a censorious look; Maria stared back at her with a growing dislike they could all see. She shot Roarke a look, and he smiled quickly at her, then arose, withdrawing something from an inner pocket of his suit jacket.

"While researching Miss Diaz's fantasy, I came across this document," he said, while everyone stared at him. "It is a record of the baptisms that took place in that little town in the year 1955." He unfolded the paper. "Now, here is Miss Diaz's name, here is her mother's name, and here is the name she gave—as God was her witness—for the father."

Woodruff and Mrs. Pomproy peered at the document; she looked thwarted, but Woodruff said, "I'm satisfied."

"Good," said Roarke. Maria brightened considerably and sighed with relief. "I'll be leaving, then; I'm sure the two of you have a lot of catching up to do. Leslie?"

As Leslie was rising, Woodruff got a look of horror about him and sprang into motion after his host. "Roarke, you're gonna leave her here?" he yelled, clearly aghast.

Roarke stared at him in surprise. "Well, she _is_ your daughter, Mr. Woodruff." When there was no response, he added, "Good day, sir…madame." He signaled at Leslie, and she followed him out of the room and then the house.

Leslie, preparing to ask a question, found herself staring at a very long, black limo in the drive behind the rover. A man in long, sumptuous robes was just being handed out by a uniformed driver; when the robed man spotted her and Roarke, he nodded his head courteously to them. "Good day, sir," Roarke replied with a welcoming smile. "Come, Leslie."

"Who was that?" she asked, keeping her voice low as she slid into the front seat.

"The prime minister of India," Roarke replied. "You see, Mr. Woodruff is hosting a diplomatic meeting at his estate this weekend, and we are invited to dinner tomorrow."

"Oh no," she groaned. "I'll probably embarrass the living daylights out of you and Mr. Woodruff and everybody else. I don't really have anything to wear to something like that, and it's bound to be the most formal event I've ever been to."

Roarke chuckled. "Don't worry, Leslie," he said. "I have suitable gowns from which you may choose. If you're worried about your manners, don't be; you should be just fine."

"But what about all those extra pieces of silverware, and how to arrange your napkin, and knowing what plate you're supposed to be eating from, and all that?" she protested.

Roarke grinned. "If you're that anxious, then we can always have a short course in formal table etiquette when Mana'olana serves the noon meal. I thought you would enjoy the opportunity to meet such famous and important personages."

"Well," Leslie admitted, "it'll sure give me something to tell the girls at school lunch on Monday." Roarke chuckled and put the car in gear.

Tattoo joined them shortly after lunch; he had changed back into his usual white suit and seemed a little worried. "Boss, did you know that Loren Robertson is here?" he asked.

"You mean Mr. Daly's friend? But he was killed in prison," Leslie said. "He can't be here if he's dead."

"Well, he's not dead," Tattoo said flatly. "Mr. Daly and I were coming back from finding the treasure, and we saw him in front of a bungalow. And more than that, he's married to the lady Mr. Daly was in love with."

"Well, that's interesting," said Leslie disgustedly. "Sounds like Robertson set up Mr. Daly and made sure he went to prison, then stole his girlfriend. Some friend."

"Did you say you had found the treasure, Tattoo?" Roarke broke in then.

"Right, boss. That mask you mentioned was there, and there was a whole coffin full of precious jewels of all kinds. Mr. Daly didn't get everything. He got a lot of stuff in his bag, but he set off a booby trap and didn't have time to get the mask. We barely made it out. A rockslide came down the side of the mountain and blocked off the entrance."

"I see," mused Roarke. "Well, in that case, Mr. Daly should be well set."

"He said he has enough to buy himself a new identity," Tattoo remembered, looking uneasy. "At first he was really mad at Robertson and wanted to kill him, but I told him he'd just end up back in prison."

Roarke seemed remarkably unruffled. "Thank you for dissuading him, my friend. And now, I would appreciate it if you would accompany several acquaintances of Miss Diaz to the Woodruff estate; Leslie, would you be so kind as to drive them there?"

Which was how Leslie found herself standing inside the massive mansion for the third time that day, while she, Tattoo and Maria Diaz's friends waited patiently for the butler to fetch Charles Woodruff. After a few minutes the butler returned with Woodruff and gestured to the waiting group. Behind him were Maria and Mrs. Pomproy.

"Who are these people?" Woodruff demanded belligerently.

"Well," Tattoo said, indicating the gray-haired lady in a pretty blue-and-white skirt-and-jacket outfit, "this is a long-lost aunt, Gina, from Mexico."

"Tia Gina?" gasped Maria, and she ran to embrace the woman, who hugged her tightly, both of them exclaiming happily in Spanish.

Tattoo went on, "The great-uncle, General Rodriguez, from Bolivia." Maria threw her arms around the older man in military uniform; the fellow barely cracked a smile, but warmly embraced his great-niece and gave her what sounded like some extravagant compliment in Spanish, calling her _"mi niña Maria"_, before kissing the back of her hand. He then saluted, while the befuddled Mrs. Pomproy looked on in despair.

"And," concluded Tattoo, "this is your cousin from New York, Rudolpho."

This last greeting was by far the most exuberant yet; Maria let out a screech of delight and hugged the good-looking dark-haired young man before bouncing around to Aunt Gina with sheer euphoria. Leslie couldn't resist giggling, though she took care to hide it behind her hand when she saw the startled, lost looks on the butler and Woodruff.

"Well," Tattoo said, "since you're having such a great family reunion, I thought, why not invite the rest of the family?"

"Oh, thank you, Tattoo, what a good idea," Maria exclaimed and hugged him.

Mrs. Pomproy finally sputtered in horror, "You…you mean these gypsies are going to stay here?"

"Well, that's the best kind of fantasy," said Tattoo appealingly. The tall clock behind the general chimed the hour, and the old man hopped nimbly about, saluted it and then resumed his initial position, completely straight-faced. Everyone looked at one another; Woodruff seemed dubious, Mrs. Pomproy forbidding. Even the relatives looked nervous. Tattoo cleared his throat, catching Leslie's eye.

"I think it's time for us to go," she announced brightly. "Mr. Roarke's got a lot for us to do…doesn't he, Tattoo?"

"He certainly does," Tattoo agreed heartily. "Enjoy your stay…and your reunion, everyone." He flashed them all a huge, patently false grin, then beat a hasty retreat with Leslie right behind him. They were both relieved to hear the butler close the door after them.

"That was close," Tattoo remarked as Leslie wound her way down the Enclave's access lane back to the Ring Road. "I thought one of them was gonna blow up any second."

"I wonder if we're still invited to dinner after that," Leslie mused, glancing at Tattoo, who could only shrug.


	17. Chapter 17

§ § § - February 19, 1983

While they were gone, Roarke paid a call to one of the bungalows; when he opened the door at an invitation from within, he found himself staring at an unfamiliar-looking, youngish man with a neat beard, clad in an understated and very expensive gray business suit. He took a closer look, then smiled broadly. "Well, Mr. Daly," he said, impressed. His guest had undergone a complete transformation; even his hair color was different, changed to a deep brown from its former gray. "May I talk to you?"

"Certainly," Daly replied. "C'mon in."

"Thank you." Roarke closed the door and stepped inside.

"Only I am not Alan Daly anymore," Daly said. "How do you like the new me? Mr. Thomas Lacey." Roarke paused, studying him, while he stroked the beard. "Very rich, very reclusive, collector of rare and primitive art."

"Yes," Roarke agreed, "the difference is amazing."

"It's only the beginning, Mr. Roarke. Here, sit down." He showed Roarke to the couch where he'd sat earlier.

"Thank you. Um…it seems to me your fantasy has been fulfilled since you found the hidden treasure. When do you plan to leave Fantasy Island to begin your new life?"

"Well, like any other guest, when the weekend's over…if that's all right with you."

"Oh yes, yes, of course…but, uh…Tattoo told me what happened when you saw Mr. and Mrs. Loren Robertson today."

Daly's face cleared and he sat down. "Relax, Mr. Roarke. Tattoo brought me back to my senses."

"Well, then, why not leave?" Roarke asked straight out.

"I can really use this art auction you're holding here to help establish my new identity," Daly explained.

Roarke nodded faintly. "You also know that Mr. and Mrs. Loren Robertson will be there, don't you?"

"A test," Daly said. "You see, if they don't recognize me, then nobody will."

"I see," Roarke murmured. He rose. "Still, I would like to remind you that revenge is a two-headed monster that strikes in all directions." He met the other man's gaze just long enough to be sure this had registered, then said quietly, "Good day, Mr. Daly," and left.

§ § § - February 20, 1983

They had seen nothing of Alan Daly, alias Thomas Lacey, since Roarke had left him in his bungalow; but Roarke had heard from one of his employees about a mask that looked exactly like the fabled Mask of Tenochuatl, which had turned out to be the main attraction at last evening's auction preview. It troubled him; after all, Tattoo had said that Daly had failed to retrieve the mask from its hiding place before the cave-in. Deciding to do a little investigation into the matter, he sent Leslie and Tattoo to the Woodruff estate to check up on Maria and see how she was getting along with her newfound father.

Leslie pulled into the long driveway and noticed a man mowing the expansive green carpet of a lawn; not far away stood a horse with an oddly familiar rider on its back. "Stop," Tattoo said abruptly, making Leslie halt the car almost hard enough to leave rubber marks on the driveway. "That looks like Maria's great-uncle, the general."

"What's he doing?" was all she had time to ask before the man on horseback launched himself forward, whipped out a sword and brandished it in the air with a wild flourish. The man on the mower let out a yell and swerved aside, forgetting how slow his vehicle was; he just managed to get out of the way before the general lost his grip on the reins and tumbled off his horse, which trotted unconcernedly off to the stables that stood behind the mansion.

"Well, Tia Gina said he was half crazy," Tattoo mumbled. "I'll stay with him—Leslie, you go park the car and get Maria, quick."

In a few minutes Leslie returned with Maria; she had been fortunate enough to find Maria in the parlor, since no butler had answered the door and she'd had to let herself in, due to the urgency of the situation. Maria and Leslie helped get the general to his feet and they all supported him back into the house, where they settled him into a chair and Maria comforted him in Spanish. When it looked safe enough to assume the glassy-eyed old man wasn't going anywhere, they turned away from him, Maria looking doubtful and downcast for the first time all weekend. Tattoo and Leslie accompanied her, at her beckoning, to the parlor entrance, where they could speak with some privacy.

"You know," Maria said, "I'm beginning to see that my uncle is, what you call, loony-toony?" She rotated an index finger beside her temple, and Tattoo smiled, amused. "He's going bananas!" The general shifted on the bench where they'd left him, blowing out his breath, as though he'd overheard.

"I know what you mean," Tattoo said sympathetically.

"Tattoo, I was so wrong for coming here. I make my papa so unhappy."

Leslie and Tattoo looked at each other. "How could you have done that?" Leslie asked.

"Oh…" Maria sighed and blew some bangs out of her eyes. "Tia Gina take over in the kitchen and scare away the chef—she added some hot sauce to the béarnaise." Again Tattoo and Leslie exchanged glances. "My cousin Rudolpho can't stop playing with the car engines in the garage. And then there is my uncle…" She made a vague gesture in the general's direction. "Mrs. Pomproy was so upset. She say it's not right…Tia Gina in the kitchen, Rudolpho in the garage, and my uncle in the ozone."

"Oh," Leslie blurted and slapped a hand over her mouth. Tattoo smiled but carefully killed it before facing Maria again.

"But that is not enough," Maria continued forlornly. "Now all the staff have quit. They were so angry about my relatives, they left and they are not coming back."

"Uh-oh," Leslie murmured, blinking.

Tattoo brightened. "Look—I know a way to make your daddy happy again."

Maria looked oddly at him; Leslie groaned. "Tattoo, don't…"

Tattoo made a shushing motion at her and said to Maria, "You and your relatives are gonna take the place of his servants."

Maria looked intrigued. "We can?"

"Yes! You know your Aunt Gina? She can cook so well? Well, she can cook for the party this afternoon!"

Maria looked thrilled. "And my uncle in his uniform—he looks so snoopy-doopy—" That made Leslie guffaw once despite herself. "He will be the butler!"

"Right," Tattoo said, "and your cousin Rudolpho can park the cars."

"Yeah, a valet," Leslie put in, dubious but realizing they probably had no other choice in the matter.

"Right!" Maria exclaimed, back to her natural exuberance. "And I will be the maid! Ay!" she crowed, stooping to hug Tattoo again in her delight. "Tattoo, you are a genius. Thank you!"

"You're welcome," Tattoo said, looking very pleased. "Look—the boss and Leslie and I were invited to the party this afternoon. I'm gonna be there to help you if you need me. We gotta go now, okay?"

"Okay," Maria bubbled, going to the door with them. "You are a genius. Oh, I thank you so much…"

Tattoo paused suddenly and turned to face her, with Leslie watching, wishing she could stop them but unsure her words would have any effect. "Oh, Maria," he said, "if somehow, something goes wrong, then remember—it was _your_ idea."

Leslie's mouth dropped wide open, but Maria swallowed it. "Okay, Tattoo," she said, wide-eyed and truly puzzled, "but what can go wrong?"

As if in response, the clock chimed; the general promptly stood up from his bench and saluted it. Maria, Tattoo and Leslie glanced at one another, and Leslie said direly, "Well, that, for one."

Tattoo shrugged slightly, as if in resignation, and urged Leslie along, pulling the door shut behind him. She waited till they were safely in the car before throwing him a look. "I can't believe you said that."

"Said what?" Tattoo asked blankly.

She sniffed and stopped the car where the driveway gave onto the access lane into the Enclave, then quoted him: _"If somehow, something goes wrong, then remember, it was _your_ idea."_ She then glared at him. "That's just mean!"

Tattoo's return glare was quite dirty. "It _has_ to be her idea. If it's my idea, I'll get fired. Maria can't get into as much trouble as I can. And be glad I didn't volunteer you for service. You'd have to stay for training and the boss would notice, and I'd be fired for _that."_

Leslie muttered something under her breath and let the subject lie, certain they were all in for impending disaster. Experience had told her so, and had never let her down yet…

‡ ‡ ‡

"Three million, five hundred once…three million, five hundred twice—" The voice of the auctioneer rang out over the clearing; the open-air dining room was serving as the site of the art auction, cleared of all tables, with the chairs arranged in rows. There was not one empty seat, Roarke noticed. Curious about the auction and thinking Leslie might appreciate some exposure to art, he had brought her along, but they remained outside the perimeter, not wishing to disturb the bidding on the current item.

"Four," said a quiet voice, interrupting the auctioneer; it belonged, Leslie saw, to Alan Daly, alias Thomas Lacey. He sat in a chair directly across the aisle from Loren Robertson, and it appeared that these two were the only serious bidders.

"Four million dollars! Four million once, four million twice—"

"Four, five," said Robertson.

"Four million, five hundred thousand dollars. Going once…"

"Four million, six," said Daly.

Robertson pushed it up a hundred thousand, and then Daly upped the bidding by another two hundred thousand, making Robertson glance skyward as if in annoyance. Daly stared intently at Robertson; the auctioneer prodded, "Four million, nine hundred thousand —that's the bid, Mr. Robertson."

Robertson licked his lips and took in a breath, then said, "Five million dollars."

"Ladies and gentlemen, the bid is five million dollars. Five million dollars…going once, going twice…" Leslie saw Robertson and Daly exchange words, but they couldn't be heard under the auctioneer's voice and the murmuring of the other attendees.

Leslie finally peered at the item in question to see what was being so hotly contested, and blinked at the sight of a gleaming gold mask. "Mr. Roarke, do you see what they're bidding on?" she whispered. "Isn't that that mask that Tattoo said Mr. Daly wasn't able to get out of that cave?" Roarke nodded, glancing at the mask, but saying nothing.

The auctioneer's hammer hit his gavel. "Sold to Mr. Loren Robertson of New York, for the sum of five million dollars." Robertson grinned broadly, very pleased with himself.

"Well, I always get what I want, sorry about that, old buddy," Robertson said, just loudly enough for Roarke and Leslie to hear over the applause. He slapped Daly's leg in what looked like comradeship.

Daly peered at him expressionlessly. "Yes, I'm sure you get what you deserve. Will you excuse me." With that, he arose and left.

"And that concludes today's auction on Fantasy Island…" the auctioneer began, while Roarke remained where he stood, his expression pensive. Leslie watched him, wondering why in the world he hadn't exposed the beautiful gold mask for the fraud it had to be.

Roarke shook his head once and then consulted his pocket watch. "We'd better return to the house if you wish to change, Leslie," he said. "The dinner party is due to begin in a little over an hour, and you mentioned you wished to wear something formal."

"Does that mean I get to choose something from your costume collection?" she asked hopefully, her eyes lighting up.

Roarke smiled indulgently. "You may, if you wish," he agreed. Delighted, she took quick advantage of this as soon as they reached the main house, and paraded five or six gowns before her guardian for approval before choosing a turquoise satin gown with a V-neck lined in white satin; the same white satin cuffed the long sleeves and rounded the hem, and there was a matching white satin belt with a round gold buckle. There were even matching turquoise shoes and a little purse with a gold-chain handle. Thus attired, Leslie felt ready to make a grand entrance, and beamed when Tattoo appeared and complimented her on her attire.

At the Woodruff estate, they could already see people going up and ringing the bell. Roarke pulled to a stop behind three other cars; the first one had just discharged its occupants, who were about to mount the steps, when their car suddenly peeled away down the drive, tires screaming in protest and horn blaring. The dinner guests stared worriedly behind them; Roarke frowned, and Tattoo and Leslie managed to trade one covert glance that Roarke missed. When their own turn came up, Roarke warned the young man on valet duty that he'd better drive more sedately, or he would find himself out of a job. Leslie and Tattoo looked at each other once more as Cousin Rudolpho, actually looking intimidated, nodded contritely, and drove the rover away at the pace of a scuttling slug. Satisfied, Roarke gave one nod, beckoned at Leslie and Tattoo, and led them up the steps and inside.

The parlor was already populated by eight or ten people, some milling around talking quietly, others sitting and enjoying drinks. To Tattoo's and Leslie's relief, the general was nowhere to be seen at the moment. Roarke declined a drink for either himself or a disappointed Tattoo, and smoothly circulated among the guests, taking time to have a few words with each and every person there, and greeting the new arrivals as they came in. Tattoo cast Leslie a look that warned her to keep quiet and went off into another room, leaving her to wonder uneasily what Roarke would say when he noticed his assistant was missing.

Then Maria—clad in a maid's outfit and carrying a guitar over one shoulder—came into the room and tapped Roarke's shoulder; he excused himself to the couple he was speaking with and turned to her. _"Señor_ R-rrroarke," she said low, "everybody's frowning. I think we need music, to cheer things up."

"Splendid idea, Miss Diaz. Have a seat," Roarke offered, to Maria's delight. Leslie stepped back and watched her guardian seat Maria; through her mind spiraled any number of disastrous scenarios, chief of which was the fear that Maria would make a complete fool of herself by singing whatever she was about to sing. She had said she had undergone musical training, but even if she could play guitar, could she sing?

Charles Woodruff, clearly with the same idea, bulldozed into the room, heading straight for Maria, only to be caught by Roarke. "Mr. Woodruff, please," he said, pulling the diplomat over to the fireplace so that Roarke now stood between Woodruff and Leslie.

"Mr. Roarke, what is she doing now?" Woodruff gasped.

"Well, she's going to entertain your guests," Roarke said.

Woodruff scowled and folded his arms over his chest. "Well, this is hardly the time and place for a hootenanny."

Just then Maria began picking the guitar, and a few beats later she started to sing. Leslie was amazed to realize that she recognized the song; it was "Chiquitita", one of a long string of hits for the Swedish supergroup ABBA. As Maria played and sang, Woodruff let his arms fall to his sides and stared, his expression slowly growing more and more impressed.

Then Maria set the guitar aside and began to clap her hands as she swung into the song's chorus; from somewhere came the sound of a guitar and piano, even though Maria was no longer playing. Leslie sneaked a look at Roarke, who merely looked on with a small smile; she was sure he was responsible for the instruments, even though there was no piano or other guitar in sight. She had to grin; her guardian clearly meant to help Maria, whether he owned up to any little magic tricks or not.

Maria played to her audience, taking a moment to dance with the Indian ambassador and then with her father, who to his credit got into the spirit of things and danced along. At last she sat down, picked up the guitar and wound the song down with a flourish. Everyone in the room began to applaud enthusiastically. "She's good," Woodruff remarked with surprised pride. "My daughter's very good!"

As Maria was bowing in acknowledgment, a loud clanging assaulted their ears, and all eyes turned to the parlor entrance. There stood Maria's Tia Gina, banging with gusto on a frying pan. "Dinner is ready!" she announced jubilantly. "Come and get it, in the dining room! And get ready for to _shhhhow down!"_ Woodruff looked suddenly apprehensive; Roarke raised a finger and opened his mouth as if to say something, but gave up. Instead he turned to Leslie and guided her along in the wake of Woodruff and all the guests. As they filed quietly along to the dining room, Leslie stepped over an old-fashioned heat register in the floor, and could have sworn she heard a voice trying to sing, somewhere in its depths. She glanced down in surprise.

"Is something wrong, Leslie?" Roarke inquired.

"_Ninety-nine bottles o'beer onna wall…"_ Leslie heard faintly, and blinked. "I don't know," she murmured. "I thought I heard something…" The voice died out and she shrugged. "I guess it was my imagination. Or maybe it's just my ears ringing." Roarke gave her a strange look, but let it drop, and they kept moving.

In a few minutes everyone was seated around the table, with the notable exception of Tattoo, who seemed to have disappeared completely. The table was beautifully set, and the main course had been laid out; bowls of salad sat near everyone's places. Leslie, finding herself hungry, waited nevertheless for Roarke's cue before she picked up the short fork that she had been told was the salad fork and "chowing down".

Some conversation ensued here and there, but ceased when Maria and Gina rounded the table filling everyone's plates. It looked like some kind of shrimp dish, Leslie thought, and looked at Roarke, who seemed pleasantly surprised. "This is _paella_, Leslie," he explained. "A delicious Spanish dish. Try it."

"Okay, I'm game," she said willingly, and he smiled and winked as everyone began to eat. She forked in a bite of shrimp and rice, and within five seconds her mouth seemed to have filled with flames. She gulped desperately and reached out for the glass of ginger ale she had been given in lieu of wine, draining half of it at one go. All around her, other diners were doing the same thing, coughing and grabbing their wine glasses in the vain hope of quenching the heat. "My mouth is on fire!" someone cried.

The French ambassador shot to his feet and hurled his napkin onto the table. "M'sieur!" he thundered indignantly. "If this is your idea of a joke, I am not amused! Come, Josephine…" He retreated from the dining room ranting in French, while a choking woman stumbled out of her chair after him.

Woodruff got up. "Wait, Mr. Ambassador!" he wheezed in a voice an octave above his normal speaking tones. But others were abandoning their plates and clearing the room at speed. "My dear friends, I can explain! Wait, please!…" He chased them out, till the only person remaining at the table was Roarke, looking after the others in mild puzzlement. Leslie stared at him in disbelief, coughing too hard to speak. Meantime, Gina and Maria approached him, quizzical looks on their faces, and he smiled broadly and made a gesture indicating his wholehearted approval of Gina's cooking. Leslie tried to groan, but instead broke into a fresh bout of coughing and had to turn away and cover her mouth.

Roarke finally seemed to have realized that the guests had all departed without ceremony; Woodruff was still standing near the door, calling in vain for them to come back. Roarke sighed gently, then plucked a roll from a basket sitting on the table and pushed it into Leslie's hand. "Here, this will take care of the problem," he said, and left her there cramming bread into her mouth while he went out to see to Woodruff. Maria and Gina followed him; Tattoo appeared from the kitchen with the general on his heels, and they all met Woodruff at the parlor entrance.

"Did you see what just happened in there?" he demanded in anguish. "I could very well be drummed out of the diplomatic corps! This whole thing is your fault—yours and that overzealous, underbrained man Friday here!" He indicated Tattoo, whose face became a mask of outrage. He turned to Roarke as though to protest, but Roarke nodded reassuringly at him and turned back to the upset diplomat.

But before anyone could speak, there was a screeching of tires and a horrific metallic crashing, and everyone's attention went to the door. Woodruff crossed the foyer and threw it open. Sure enough, in the drive, one large black official car had collided with another, at such evident speed that the first car's front wheels were five feet off the ground. A man stumbled out of the back seat while someone else rounded the front of the second car, shouting, "Hey, why don't you look where you're goin'?" It was Cousin Rudolpho.

"See?" Woodruff said in despair. "Why couldn't you have left well enough alone? I'm ruined, Roarke, ruined!"

Maria made a sound of sheer distress. "Oh…I'm so sorry, Papa," she moaned, on the verge of tears, and fled up the curving staircase.

"Ruined, Mr. Woodruff?" Roarke repeated, as Leslie finally ventured from the dining room, a second roll in one hand and her nearly empty glass of ginger ale in the other. "I would say that depends on your values. I suggest you examine them very carefully. Tattoo? Leslie?" Leslie gulped back the last of the ginger ale and came into the foyer, handing her glass to Gina and following Roarke and Tattoo out the door.

They had a fair walk before finding the rover, thankfully undamaged, parked in a now almost deserted lot. "Well, Leslie, have you recovered?" Roarke inquired in amusement.

She snorted. "I don't know. I think I'm going to have heartburn for a week. What in the world did Tia Gina put in that stuff? Is it supposed to be that hot?"

"Not normally," Roarke admitted with a chuckle, "although personally, I found it quite tasty." She shot him a dirty look and he grinned. "Unfortunately, I readily confess that I was very much in the minority." At this point he speared Tattoo with a look. "So tell me, my friend, exactly how did Miss Diaz and her relatives come to substitute for Mr. Woodruff's regular staff?"

"Boss, it was her—" Tattoo began, only to have Leslie twist around in the front seat and glare warningly at him. He glared right back, but she wouldn't let up.

"Have you finished trying to stare each other down?" Roarke asked dryly. "Tattoo, an explanation, if you please. Leslie, kindly face front."

While Leslie turned around, Tattoo sighed heavily and seemed to give in. "Okay, okay." He then related the entire story, from the moment they'd arrived at the mansion and learned that Woodruff's regular staff had quit, till those last few fateful moments of the mass exodus at the dinner table.

Roarke frowned and said slowly, mostly to himself, "The butler, the cook, the valet, the maid…that leaves only Mrs. Pomproy. What happened to her?"

Tattoo looked abashed. "I asked Tia Gina the same thing. She said she and Cousin Rudolpho locked Mrs. Pomproy in the wine cellar, so she wouldn't stop Miss Diaz and her relatives from going forward with the party plans."

"The wine cellar?" Roarke said, staring at his assistant in the rearview mirror.

"Hey—that's who I must've heard singing when I stepped over that heat grate on the way into the dining room," Leslie exclaimed. "I thought the voice sounded drunk, but I didn't want to say anything, because I couldn't hear it very well."

Roarke sighed. "Oh, Tattoo…Tattoo…"

"Boss, I was only trying to help," Tattoo sputtered. "And then Woodruff goes and calls me an underbrained man Friday! That's not fair!"

Roarke shook his head. "Tattoo, that isn't the point. I believe you were about to disown the entire charade and blame it all on Miss Diaz, for one thing." Tattoo turned very red, which made Leslie smirk. "And then there's you, Leslie Susan. Why on earth didn't you speak up and try to stop them?"

Shocked, Leslie gawked at her guardian for a full eight seconds before she found her voice again. "I…I didn't know what to say! Anyway, if I'd told them they couldn't do that, they'd have asked me what we should do then, and I didn't have any better ideas." She tipped her head aslant and added pleadingly, "Maria just wanted to help, you know."

"That's right," piped up Tattoo from the back.

"I know," Roarke said, through another sigh. "All right, all right. Perhaps it was unavoidable, after all is said and done. It would probably have been very difficult, if not impossible, to hire new staff on such short notice in any event." To their surprise, he smiled all of a sudden. "I daresay it served to open Mr. Woodruff's eyes."

Tattoo and Leslie risked glances at each other. "Well, I sure hope so," Tattoo said, a little strident. "But I still don't think he should have blamed us." Roarke threw him a sympathetic look in the mirror, and Leslie grinned.


	18. Chapter 18

§ § § - February 20, 1983

Back at the main house, Leslie had just finished changing her clothes when she heard someone knock on the door below. She tried to listen as she threaded a hanger back into the gown she'd worn to the disastrous dinner and hooked it over the top of her bedroom door. By the time she got downstairs, the distraught woman at Roarke's desk was looking rather frantic. "But I need to leave immediately!"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Robertson, but there are no flights out until tomorrow morning," said Roarke regretfully. It was late Sunday afternoon, and the day's last charter had departed while he, Leslie and Tattoo were on their way back from the Woodruff estate.

"I just can't stay here any longer, Mr. Roarke," the woman protested, just as a man in a blue business suit swung in through the open inner-foyer door, talking as he went.

"Mr. Roarke, I've gotta find—" Then he spotted the woman, who Leslie belatedly realized was Marian Robertson, wife of Loren and former girlfriend of Alan Daly. Daly had divested himself of the brunet wig, beard and mustache. He stopped a couple of feet from Mrs. Robertson, and they stared at each other uneasily for a moment.

Then Daly's face softened and he approached her. "Marian," he began, reaching out to grasp her arms even as she turned away from him.

"I have nothing to say to you," she informed him.

"Marian, I'm so sorry. I thought that you knew, that you were part of this frame-up! I spent the last eight years of my life in prison. Loren framed me so he could have you to himself!" Daly insisted.

Roarke put in, "It's true. He was falsely accused of smuggling; and I'm sorry, but…he is right about your husband."

Marian let this sink in, then turned in Daly's grasp and stared up at him. Even from the steps, Leslie could see her eyes had filled with tears. "I thought you were dead. He told me you were!"

"Oh, I know that now," Daly murmured, staring hungrily at her. She closed her eyes and stepped into his embrace, wrapping her arms around him; he seemed a little stunned, yet grateful at the same time, and slowly slid his arms around her as well.

Roarke smiled. "If you'll excuse me, I just remembered something very important I have to do." He noticed Leslie standing at the foot of the steps and beckoned to her, putting a finger to his lips; she grinned and nodded, joining him as he left the study to leave Daly and Marian alone.

They crossed the veranda and headed for the rover that was parked beside the fountain, and Leslie finally asked, "So what's so important?"

"I daresay we should check on Miss Diaz," Roarke said. "She may need transportation to a bungalow. At the very least I feel it wise to speak with Mr. Woodruff."

They picked up Tattoo at his cottage and drove back to the Enclave; Roarke didn't bother ringing the bell, but instead let himself, Tattoo and Leslie inside without announcing themselves. They were just in time to see Maria and her relatives stepping off the staircase, toting suitcases and Maria's guitar case. But before anyone could speak, Woodruff came into the entry through a side door, supporting a dazed-looking Mrs. Pomproy.

The woman took one look and howled, _"There they are!"_ Everyone flinched. "Lock 'em up before they _strike_ again!" She lurched over to stick her face into Maria's, clumsily hitching up the skirt of her red floral-print dress.

"Oh, we are leaving," Maria assured the very drunk woman. "Mr. Roarke and Tattoo and Leslie, they will take us away rr-rright now."

Mrs. Pomproy drifted over to Roarke. "Ohhhhhh…bless you…" She stretched out her arms, and for a moment Leslie thought she was going to hug the stuffing out of Roarke; but instead she beamed vacantly at him and patted his cheek with abject gratitude. "Bless you." Roarke turned a long-suffering look on Leslie and Tattoo; Tattoo stared back in amazement, and Leslie began to giggle uncontrollably.

Maria had paused in front of Woodruff. "We leave," she explained, "because I have come to know why my mother love you. You are a good and important man, with many good and important things ahead for you. I leave because I love you."

Woodruff caught her as she started to turn away. "Maria, please try to understand…"

Mrs. Pomproy leaned precariously to one side to address Maria. "May I be the first to say…good _riddance. _ Why, Mr. Woodruff needs you as much as—oh." She had started to wander away, and her foot had bumped Maria's guitar case. "As much as the _Titanic_ needed ice cubes!" She started to guffaw at her own drunken quip, but cut herself off and raised her hand to her forehead with a moan. Leslie glanced at Roarke just in time to catch the faintest of smiles on his handsome features, and found herself utterly unable to stop snickering behind her hands, despite the somber and slightly bewildered mien of the others. Mrs. Pomproy stumbled back to Maria, still raving in the lazy drawl of inebriation. "I mean, look around you…Mr. Woodruff is a very—" Just then she bumped into Tattoo and steadied him with her own none-too-steady hand. " 'Scuse me. A very wealthy man. He could have anything he wants." She hitched up her skirt again. "Now don't you _think_ that if he wanted a daughter, he woulda _had_ one by now?"

"Mrs. Pomproy," Woodruff growled, aghast.

"I go now," Maria mumbled and started blindly for the door, forgetting even her guitar case in her haste to depart.

But Woodruff rushed after her and caught her. "Maria—Maria, please. Maria, everything Mrs. Pomproy said is true. I'm a very ambitious and successful man. But she just made me realize that the reason why is because what Roarke said is also true. I'm dedicated to my work because I don't know anything else. Ever since I met and lost your mother, I've been trying to make myself believe that loving someone, and being loved, wasn't important. But that isn't true." He smiled at her. "Maria, it would please me very much if you'd stay."

Maria's eyes grew wide and she threw her arms around him. "Papa…oh, Papa, you really mean it?"

"Yes, I do," he assured her, clinging tightly to her. Tattoo had brightened; he and Roarke exchanged delighted looks, and Leslie—who'd finally recovered from her mirth at the drunken Mrs. Pomproy—grinned, happy to see father and daughter truly reunited.

Then Maria indicated her relatives. "What about Tia Gina, and my great-uncle, and Cousin Rudolpho—?"

"Yes, they can stay too," Woodruff said, half cheerful, half resigned. "And may God help us all, please." Crowing in delight, Maria rushed over to hug everyone, and this time they included Woodruff in their group embrace. Roarke nodded toward the door, and he and Tattoo and Leslie made for it, though Leslie looked back long enough to see Mrs. Pomproy collapse against the nearest doorjamb and hide her head in her arms. Roarke and Tattoo stopped to look back as well, and saw Woodruff salute the general, who saluted back with the first real, wide grin Leslie had seen on him all weekend.

They left quietly, and once they were on their way Leslie finally said with a snicker, "Poor old Mrs. Pomproy. She's probably gonna have to quit, or else they'll all drive her nuts."

Roarke glanced reprovingly at her, but had to chuckle at the mirthful look on her face. "You may be right, Leslie."

"Either that, or she'll become an alcoholic," Tattoo contributed. "After all, it looks to me like she coped in the only way she knew how." Neither Roarke nor Leslie could hold back their laughter after that.

§ § § - February 21, 1983

Alan Daly and Marian Robertson stepped out of the first rover on Monday morning; they looked happy, but the first thing Roarke said was to her. "Mrs. Robertson, I am terribly sorry about your husband." They had learned shortly after the evening meal the day before that Robertson had forced Daly and Marian at gunpoint to take him back to the treasure cave, where he'd made them dig through the rockslide that had blocked the entrance and then retrieve the real Mask of Tenochuatl for Robertson's benefit. But when Daly had accidentally set off another booby trap, Robertson and the mask had been buried in the resulting cave-in; Daly and Marian had barely escaped with their lives.

"His greed just finally caught up to him," Marian said.

Daly smiled. "At least I finally found Marian after all this time. We've got a lot of catching up to do."

"Yes," Roarke agreed, "love is the best cure for all the ailments of our lives. Good luck to you both." They thanked him and started off for the landing ramp.

The second rover deposited Charles Woodruff and Maria Diaz, who didn't wait for a greeting but said straight out, _"Muchas gracias._ You made my papa and me very happy."

"Oh," Roarke responded, "it was my pleasure, Miss Diaz. Well, Mr. Woodruff, it appears you've inherited an entire family, huh?" He gestured to where Maria's relatives stood near the dock, patiently waiting for Woodruff and Maria to join them.

"Yes, I have," Woodruff agreed cheerfully, "and believe it or not, I don't really mind."

"Did Mrs. Pomproy get over her hangover yet?" inquired Tattoo. Leslie started to laugh again, even when Roarke threw both her and Tattoo the same reproachful, shushing look. But Woodruff chuckled.

"She hasn't quite gotten over any of this yet, Tattoo," he said, winking at Leslie. She laughed again and accepted his handshake.

"Well, good luck to all of you," Roarke said.

Maria thanked him profusely, while her father observed, "Thank you…we're gonna need it." They all laughed, watching the group band together and board the charter.

Waving them off, Roarke released a deeply satisfied sigh and eyed his assistant and his ward with a twinkle in his eyes. "Ah…you know, Tattoo, this is my kind of fantasy."

"Boss, that's my line," Tattoo protested.

"Hm?" Roarke said, turning back to wave once more. Leslie let her snickers become out-and-out laughter, which simply increased at Tattoo's disgruntled look; Roarke at last joined in, relieving her of any further worry about admonishments later on. It was going to be a wonderful story to tell her friends at lunch that day.

§ § § - April 21, 2007

"Oh, too much," groaned Lauren, still laughing. "I'll bet that woman quit."

"I doubt that," Camille retorted, grinning. "She probably just turned into a lifelong drunk after that. She'd have needed it to deal with those crazies. But hey, since it was a happy ending, maybe she just learned to like them."

"I didn't hear what happened, and as far as I know, neither did Father," Leslie said, "but I do know that whenever Mr. Woodruff and Maria came back to the island, they never had Mrs. Pomproy with them."

Sympathetic chuckles greeted that, and after they had taken a short break to sip at their respective refreshments, Myeko suddenly spoke up. "You know, Leslie, whenever we do these rehashes, we talk a lot about things Tattoo did, and sometimes stuff Julie did. But we never relive any of the fantasies Mr. Roarke granted when Lawrence was assistant here. How come?"

Leslie and Roarke looked at each other in surprise, and then Leslie shrugged, amused. "I don't know, I guess maybe because Lawrence and I found it so hard to get along, for some reason. But that doesn't mean some strange stuff didn't happen during his time here. Not that it was necessarily his doing, but his reactions could be hilarious."

Roarke laughed. "I seem to recall that you enjoyed them greatly, on those occasions when you bore witness to them. At the risk of embarrassing myself, perhaps one such occasion would have been his first full weekend of work with us…"

§ § § - October 8, 1983

By the time Lawrence was past his "training period", as Leslie was privately calling it, and ready to step fully into Tattoo's shoes, she was more than a little overwhelmed by all the changes Roarke had made after Tattoo's departure. The worst, she thought, must be the new cars. She missed the candy-apple-red rovers with their gaily striped canopies; they had been replaced by sedate brown sedans, albeit with open tops. At least, she thought with some relief, Lawrence consented to sit up front with the driver, while she could take her place in the back next to her guardian—now her adoptive father, as she still often had to remind herself. It had been such an extraordinary gift he'd given her, she still found herself marveling over it at the strangest times.

This morning they greeted one another, without any of the banter they often used to exchange with Tattoo, and took their respective places in the car. No one said anything, which made Leslie very uncomfortable. She had promised Tattoo sometime that summer that she would tell him in as much detail as possible about Lawrence's first official weekend as Roarke's new assistant; but she was afraid her letter to him would consist of nothing but complaints and wishes that Tattoo would come back to his old job.

At the plane dock, Leslie was glad to see that less had changed here; the huge, stern-faced wooden tiki still sat near the circular dirt lane that led from the plane dock to the rest of the island, and Roarke had never gotten around to removing the raised platform he'd had built just for Tattoo a couple of years before. Furthermore, he still exhorted everyone to put on a welcoming smile, and was still the one to signal the band to begin playing.

"Ah," said Lawrence, "now there's an extraordinary woman." His attention had been snagged by a tall, slender woman in a claret-colored jacket and skirt, with a patterned blouse beneath it. Her curly blonde hair was cut too short for Leslie's taste, but she did like the way this guest dressed.

"That's Mrs. Margaret Smith of New York City," Roarke said, making sure to include Leslie in his comments; he wasn't unaware of her discomfort about the raft of changes. "She was widowed five years ago."

"So of course, her fantasy is to meet the proper gentleman to become her new husband," Lawrence said, as if he knew this for a fact.

"Not exactly, Lawrence, no," said Roarke, which gave Leslie a small measure of satisfaction. From the beginning, Lawrence had struck her as too smooth, too…well, she would have called it _all-knowing_, however silly that sounded. "You see," Roarke continued, "Mrs. Smith has found that since her only child, a daughter, is grown and living her own life, that being a lonely widow is exactly that—lonely. Her fantasy is to find romance."

"I should think that romance and a husband, to a lady of her obvious breeding, would go hand in hand, sir," Lawrence observed.

Leslie squinted at him. _Breeding?_ she thought in disbelief. "You talk like she's a top-notch horse destined for the races at Ascot," she couldn't resist remarking.

Lawrence sighed, and Roarke chuckled briefly. "Possibly, Lawrence," he said, "but not necessarily." Leslie watched Lawrence stare at Roarke as if he couldn't grasp that concept in the slightest, then smirked to herself—carefully keeping it from Lawrence's view—when Roarke focused on the couple emerging from the seaplane. "Ah…Miss Deborah Barnes and Mr. Dennis Payne."

"I fear he may prove to be a 'Payne' in a proverbial part of the anatomy, sir," said Lawrence direly, which surprised Leslie into a spurt of laughter.

Roarke looked at him askance. "Oh? Why do you say that?"

"Because I have it from a very good source that, before he agreed to come to the island, he actually checked us out first." Lawrence shot a disapproving look in Payne's direction. "The Chamber of Commerce, the Better Business Bureau, even the _Tourist's Guide to Fun and Adventure."_ Even Roarke cast him a mildly surprised glance as he spoke.

"That's interesting," Leslie said. "Nobody else ever did that before." She caught Lawrence's eye and he gave her an affirming nod, as if they were on the same wavelength—an unprecedented event to be sure, she couldn't help thinking.

"Well, Lawrence, I wouldn't take it personally," Roarke said. "It's part of Mr. Payne's nature to be cautious. It is also the reason Miss Barnes insisted on coming here. You see, after going together and waiting three futile years, Miss Barnes' fantasy is to get Mr. Payne to finally propose."

"Of course, sir," Lawrence said. "Fish or cut bait…" Then he noticed Roarke's amused look and added, "As the saying goes."

Roarke and Leslie both grinned; then he accepted his glass of white wine and raised it in the weekly toast—another reassuring habit that had survived the changes.

‡ ‡ ‡

Margaret Smith looked as if she was having serious second thoughts about her fantasy, Leslie noticed; she had drunk two glasses of water nearly straight down, and couldn't seem to get comfortable in her chair. Roarke finally admonished gently, "May I suggest that you relax, Ms. Smith? You are here to enjoy yourself and find romance."

Ms. Smith promptly bobbed up from her chair and began to pace and wring her hands. "I just can't go through with this." Lawrence, Leslie now realized, had been right when he'd mentioned "breeding", as silly as the term sounded; it was plain that Margaret Smith came from upper-middle-class, if not outright wealthy, people, and she dressed and spoke the part of a society matron, with just a trace of British accent.

Roarke followed her when she finally came to a halt in front of his desk, which now stood beneath the shuttered windows. He grasped her by each arm and turned her to face him; she couldn't seem to meet his gaze. "Please, why don't you tell me what's really troubling you, Ms. Smith," he urged. "Your fantasy isn't just to find romance, is it?"

"No," she admitted at last, and he echoed her quietly, as if confirming the correctness of his own statement. "No, as a matter of fact, I had someone very specific in mind. His name is Jeffrey Dorner. We met about six months ago…would you believe, in an elevator?" They all laughed. "A storm had blacked out the co-op where my daughter lives, and there we were, this total stranger and I, suddenly stuck between floors."

"Just the two of you?" Roarke asked with interest, and she nodded. "For how long?"

"About twenty-five minutes, I guess, although it…it seemed like hours." Her gaze lost focus for a moment. "I just remember how frightened I was…how wonderful he was. His voice, coming out of the dark, saying these funny little things." She pushed off the desk and crossed the room again, with a smile at Leslie, before once again settling in the chair she had been occupying. "Comforting things."

"And when the power finally came back?" prompted Roarke.

"Well, we shook hands, said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. And I've been kicking myself ever since for letting him walk out of my life like that." She sat up, training her wistful gaze on Roarke as she spoke.

"But you knew his name," Roarke said, approaching her, face very puzzled. "May I ask why you didn't try to locate him?"

"It would have been wrong," Ms. Smith said, shifting in her chair. "It…it's our ages, Mr. Roarke. He's younger than I am—a lot younger."

"Ah," mused Roarke, sitting down across from her, while Leslie watched from her usual place beside Roarke's desk.

Ms. Smith sighed. "Oh, but I want to see him again. And that is what my fantasy is all about." She smiled a bit sheepishly.

Roarke smiled back, reassuring. "That's perfectly all right, Ms. Smith. What you want is quite understandable—really," he insisted gently, seeing her duck her head in denial. "Now…" He arose and, her hands in his, pulled her up with him. "Why don't you try to enjoy yourself, and in the meantime, I'll see what I can do, huh?"

"Thank you," Ms. Smith said, chuckling nervously through her words. "I just wish I didn't feel so damn foolish." Roarke grinned as he released her and watched her take her leave through the French shutters; then his face grew thoughtful.

"There's going to be some major problem," Leslie said once Ms. Smith was out of both sight and earshot. "I can see it coming right now."

Roarke smiled quizzically. "Do you? And do you care to hazard a guess as to precisely what that problem will be?"

"He'll be married," she said after pondering a moment, "or else he'll turn out to be the son of her absolute worst enemy in high school, and when she meets his parents she'll have to face that enemy all over again."

Roarke laughed. "You'll see soon enough, my dear Leslie," he said. "Perhaps you'll do me a favor and come with me to meet Miss Barnes, and we'll find out the exact nature of her fantasy. I suspect Mr. Payne will be difficult to manipulate."

"Well, if anyone can do it, you can," said Leslie loyally, and he smiled.


	19. Chapter 19

§ § § - October 8, 1983

Some ten minutes later they were sitting near the newly completed greensward, on a quiet raised patio ringed by statues of mythological figures, while Lawrence poured tea for Roarke and Deborah Barnes. Leslie had a crystal tumbler filled with mango juice. "I dunno, Mr. Roarke," Deborah said in a heavy Noo-Yawk accent, "every time I bring up the subject of marriage, Dennis changes it. I mean, I guess he's just not interested! Maybe I should forget all about it." Her voice wobbled a little, and she stopped pacing to blink back tears.

"Well, of course, it's entirely up to you, Miss Barnes," Roarke said. "That is, if you wish to call off your fantasy."

"I didn't say that!" Deborah protested and looked at Lawrence, who was still pouring tea. "Did you hear me say that?"

"Absolutely not, miss," Lawrence replied firmly and returned to his task. He slid a secret glance at Roarke, who nodded, smiling slightly.

"The thing is…" Deborah hesitated, finally taking the last remaining chair.

"Yes?" Roarke prompted.

"D'you really think your plan'll work?"

Roarke smiled and sat up, leaning forward; Leslie could see a handsome young man heading briskly for the steps that led onto the patio. "I'll let you be the judge of that, Miss Barnes," Roarke said and pointed discreetly at the newcomer. He was a tall, slim blond man, stylishly dressed, with a clear air of self-confidence about him.

"Wow," Deborah breathed, impressed, and turned to Roarke. "He's the one who's gonna make the passes at me?" Leslie and Roarke grinned at each other, but neither had a chance to respond before the man arrived and paused beside Deborah's chair.

Roarke stood. "Mr. Anderson," he said, "Miss Debbie Barnes."

"Miss Barnes, my pleasure," said Anderson and shook hands, while Deborah gave him a demure hello and gazed flirtatiously up at him from under her lashes.

"I submit," Roarke said with a broad smile, "that if this gentleman's attentions don't make Mr. Payne jealous enough to propose, nothing will."

"When do we start?" Deborah inquired with a girlish little smile, sipping daintily from her teacup.

"You said you were to meet Mr. Payne in the terrace lounge?" Roarke queried.

Alarm crossed her face. "Yes, the lounge. I'm supposed to be there now!"

"Then why don't you go ahead, and leave the rest to me. Mr. Anderson will join you shortly," Roarke said.

Deborah arose, dabbing at her mouth with a cloth napkin, and favored Anderson with another coy little smile. "I'm in your hands."

"Trust me, Miss Barnes," said Anderson, with a strange little leer that gave Leslie a slight shiver. This guy sounded a little too sure of himself.

Deborah giggled and started for the steps; Lawrence all but gasped before he gave chase. "Miss Barnes," he said, and when she paused and stared quizzically up at him, he prompted in a barely audible whisper, "The cup, please." Leslie shot Roarke a look and rolled her eyes to herself. Heaven forfend he lose part of his precious tea set!

"Oh." Deborah relinquished the cup and glanced at Anderson as if he were a piece of New York cheesecake topped with cherries. "Poor Dennis," she said gleefully and started off; Lawrence just managed to snatch the napkin from her hand before she moved out of reach, and Leslie ducked her head to hide a snicker.

"Any questions, Mr. Anderson?" Roarke inquired as Lawrence returned with the cup and napkin, a professionally polite smile on his face.

"You made the situation very clear, Mr. Roarke; just pour it on, right?" said Anderson, looking much friendlier and more approachable now, somehow.

"Only to the point of total immersion," Roarke said, grinning.

"You got it," Anderson said, grinning back, and Roarke chuckled cheerfully as the young man stepped back—only to trip over Deborah's abandoned chair and land quite hard on his right hip. Leslie jumped to her feet and shoved the chair aside, joining Roarke and Lawrence in hurrying to the man's side.

"Mr. Anderson, are you all right?" Roarke asked anxiously.

Anderson tried to sit up but caught himself after a mere couple of inches and groaned. "Oh…my back…I think it just went out," he gasped.

"Call an ambulance," Roarke said to Lawrence, who immediately started away.

But Anderson lifted a hand. "No, that's okay…three, four hours, I'll be good as new."

Roarke stared at him. "Three, four…_hours?"_ he repeated and lifted his gaze to Leslie's, then Lawrence's, looking as horrified as Leslie had ever seen him. They looked at one another as Anderson lay there grunting in pain; then Roarke gestured with a tip of the head, and Leslie and Lawrence followed him down a few steps, where they had a better chance of speaking without Anderson overhearing them.

"What happens now?" Leslie asked.

"We'll have to find someone else to fulfill Miss Barnes' fantasy," Roarke said, with a worried look back at Anderson.

"But sir, I'm afraid…we haven't got enough time to find someone else with his…qualifications," Lawrence protested.

"You mean there's nobody at all?" Leslie asked.

Lawrence shook his head, then peered at Roarke and smiled broadly. "Unless, of course…" he began suggestively.

Roarke stared at him. _"I,_ Lawrence?"

The butler looked ever so slightly affronted. "With all due respect, sir, I was thinking of myself." Leslie's mouth dropped open; she couldn't quite see Lawrence in Anderson's place, but neither could she picture Roarke doing it. "However, if you'd rather…"

"I didn't say I'd _rather,_ Lawrence," retorted Roarke, annoyed, before his frown became dismayed. "But I suppose we have no other choice." He sighed and lifted a hand to his forehead. "I'll just have to take his place."

"Yes sir," Lawrence agreed, obedient as ever. "As you told me when I entered your employ, it's a dirty job, but someone has to do it." Unable to help herself, Leslie started to laugh softly, particularly when Roarke shot Lawrence a reproachful look; Lawrence just smiled in his usual cheerful manner.

Then Leslie remembered something and offered facetiously, "Well, someone'll have to do it later. Weren't you going to see if Ms. Smith had met her friend yet, Mr. Roarke?"

"I was at that," said Roarke and straightened himself, then took a deep breath and let it slowly out. "If I must, I must. Lawrence, if you'll provide any assistance Mr. Anderson may need, Leslie and I will see if Ms. Smith needs anything. Whenever you've finished, you may resume your usual duties."

"Yes, sir," Lawrence said and nodded once before moving back over to where Anderson still lay supine. Roarke urged Leslie along with him to the swimming pool, which had been redecorated since Tattoo's departure—yet another change Leslie had had to deal with. This one, at least, was more to her liking; the perimeter was larger and there were more tables, so that there wasn't always such a shortage of seats for non-swimmers. Also, the concrete had been removed and lush green grass planted in its place. It was at one of the new tables that Roarke and Leslie found Margaret Smith sitting quietly, with some exotic-looking drink in front of her; she was gazing into the distance and toying absently with the little red straw stuck in the drink.

"No bathing suit, Ms. Smith?" Roarke inquired pleasantly, stopping beside her table while Leslie scanned the area to make sure things were okay. At his words, she glanced at Ms. Smith, who was dressed as tastefully as ever, but much more casually, in a maroon dress whose broad, frilly collar slipped off one shoulder. "I should think you would enjoy a swim on such a marvelous day."

Ms. Smith looked up with surprise, then smiled. "Well, I think I'd look a little weird getting on the plane in a bathing suit," she said wryly. Roarke peered at her in confusion, while Leslie noticed the bartender signaling at her and went over to see what was wrong. At his silence, Ms. Smith explained, "I've decided to call the whole thing off. I'm sorry."

"And I'm sorry to hear that," Roarke said, sitting down, genuinely sorry and quite perplexed to boot. "May I ask why?"

"Well, I've done a lot of thinking since we had our talk, and, well, let me put it this way. I feel so ridiculous."

"I suppose I understand your reasons, even if I don't agree with them at all; but, if that is your decision…" Roarke let the sentence stand, and Ms. Smith nodded. She didn't look very happy about it, but she was clearly planning to stick to it. "Very well. However," he said, rising, "you might reconsider, since your fantasy is…" He looked up towards another table some little distance away. "…sitting right over there." He smiled, then straightened up and headed for the bar after his daughter.

"You should've mentioned you needed more grenadine," he heard her saying with a trace of exasperation as he came within earshot. "I don't know if we can get any on such short notice…can we, Mr. Roarke?" She had seen him coming in her peripheral and quickly turned the question on him.

"Sorry, Mr. Roarke," the bartender said sheepishly. He was another new hire, fresh from Las Vegas. "I, uh, underestimated what I had."

"Apparently so," Roarke agreed. "Well, I'll see what I can do about it, but please try to be more diligent in your tracking of supplies, all right, Seth?" The bartender nodded, looking relieved. "How much do you have left?"

"Three bottles," he said.

Roarke started to reply, then caught himself and consulted his pocket watch. He sighed deeply. "I apologize, Leslie, but I must ask you to handle ordering the grenadine for me, if you will, and put a rush on it. You might tell the supplier to put five cases aboard the next charter flight out of Honolulu."

"I'll do that, Mr. Roarke," Leslie said, catching the relieved grin on Seth. She turned to him and suggested more gently, "It's probably a good idea to order ten cases every Friday from now on, so you know you've got enough."

"Gotcha, Miss Leslie, and thanks," Seth said, nodding to her. She nodded back and smiled, then accompanied Roarke away in the general direction of the main house.

"So is Ms. Smith going home?" she asked.

Roarke grinned. "No, I think she has changed her mind. When I pointed out Mr. Jeffrey Dorner to her, and then came over to see what was holding you up, I saw her going directly to his table. I believe she will have her fantasy after all."

"Well, good," said Leslie. "In that case, why the hurry?"

"I must change my clothing before I meet Miss Barnes in the lounge," Roarke said, shaking his head. "I certainly didn't anticipate this turn of events."

Leslie grinned sympathetically. "Even you can't foresee everything, Mr. Roarke. So when Mr. Anderson's feeling better, I presume you'll put him back to work."

"That's my intention, yes," Roarke said dryly, and her grin got bigger. "I have too much else to do this weekend to be able to spare the necessary time playing escort." He gave her a pat on the shoulder. "Thank you for making the order, Leslie."

"I don't mind," she said. "It's great to finally be out of school and be able to help you a lot more in the business. Anything you need, just ask." That got her a smile from Roarke; she smiled back and matched his brisk stride to the main house.

She was in the middle of her call to the supplier, who had put her on hold for a bit, when Roarke came down from the second floor, dressed very handsomely in a white shirt, black blazer and gray slacks. She stared at him in astonishment. "Wow!" she blurted, just as she heard a click on the line.

"What?" said the supplier's voice, contingent with Roarke's appreciative smile.

"Oh, sorry, Mr. Stephenson," Leslie said, embarrassed. "That was for someone else. Are you able to find enough to keep us going?"

"Yes, we have just enough," Stephenson told her. "I'll have it on your next plane."

"That's great. Thank you so much," Leslie said, and on his acknowledgment, hung up. "Whew, that's done. He said they have just enough to fill the order."

"Good," Roarke said. "In that case, I really must be on my way. I'll try to be back as soon as I can, but don't expect me for lunch."

"Okay," Leslie murmured, watching him leave. It would be the first time she'd had lunch with Lawrence and without Roarke, and she wasn't sure she cared too much for that idea. Maybe she'd just skip the meal…

At the lounge, Roarke quietly ordered a drink called a Summer's Delight and discreetly pointed at the table where he could see Deborah Barnes and Dennis Payne sitting. Payne seemed to be tapping on some small, dark, square object; Deborah looked impatient and kept shifting in her chair. The waiter nodded to Roarke and picked up the requested drink, along with a plain club soda with a lime stuck in it, then departed for the table in question while Roarke watched.

When the waiter left the table, Roarke crossed the room and pulled out the empty chair there. "Forgive me for intruding, but I saw you sitting here, and I couldn't resist," he said. Indicating the chair, he inquired, "May I?"

"Oh, of course!" Deborah said in delight. Roarke thanked her and took a seat, aware of Dennis Payne's bewildered stare. Ignoring him, she leaned forward and asked meaningfully, "Is someone else joining us—I-I mean, you?"

Of course, Roarke knew what she was really asking. "A friend of mine, who helps me out now and then, was supposed to be here, but I'm afraid he met with a little accident and hurt his back."

"Oh no," Deborah blurted, then realized what she had just said and amended, "I mean, how awful for him."

"I've already made arrangements for someone else to take my friend's place," Roarke explained. "In the meantime…" He sat a little farther forward in his chair and gazed at her. "I couldn't resist the opportunity to be with you."

They gazed at each other, Roarke feigning extreme interest, Deborah with eyes shining in wonder. Then Payne cleared his throat and inquired, "Uh, would you two like to be alone?"

Roarke started, as if he'd been completely unaware of the other man's presence. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Payne. Did you just get here?"

Payne started to respond before Roarke's last sentence sank in. "No," he said in consternation. "As a matter of fact, no. What…what is going on here, anyway?"

"Nothing to interest you, I'm afraid," Roarke said, smiling broadly. Deborah began to giggle, and he chuckled, as if caught up in some mutual joke that excluded Payne. Focusing his full attention on her, he went on, "Enjoy your Summer's Delight. I created it myself… Deborah." His use of her first name caught her attention, and she paused to gaze at him, whispering her own name in echo of his usage of it. "I have to admit, I took the name 'Summer's Delight' from a French poem. Perhaps you are familiar with it?" When she shook her head a little, he began to recite: _"Even in the winter's darkest night, you will always be my summer's delight."_ Deborah sighed dreamily, her face rapturous.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Payne staring at him with increasing outrage, and played to it, taking Deborah's hand and kissing it. "Until later, Deborah…until later." And he got up and left.

Behind him he heard Payne mutter irritably, "Ten to one, your Summer's Delight will show up on our tab."

"Dennis, do me a favor," came Deborah's wispy reply. "Shut up." Roarke couldn't stop a small private chuckle as he left the lounge.

He was in time for lunch after all, to Leslie's relief; he noticed, but since Lawrence was also present, he didn't mention it. He had seen that Lawrence had a way of intimidating Leslie, whether he did it consciously or not, and that Leslie was still coping with all the changes he'd made since Tattoo left, so he didn't place full blame on either one or the other. He had hopes that Leslie would soon adjust and that she and Lawrence would eventually get along, at least, even if they would never be as close as Leslie and Tattoo had been.

"What can you tell me about Mr. Anderson?" Roarke inquired once they had been served and Mariki, who had taken over the kitchen after Mana'olana's recent retirement, had retreated. This was one change Leslie had no problem with; Mariki had already been with the main-house staff for years, and she liked the sharp-tongued Polynesian woman.

Lawrence shook his head with a deeply regretful look on his face. "I'm sorry, sir, he's still indisposed." He hesitated while Roarke and Leslie each took bites, then cleared his throat and ventured, "Sir, are you quite certain you don't wish me to take over?"

Leslie slid him one dubious look and then carefully focused on her lunch. Roarke saw this but let it pass; to be truthful, he himself wasn't entirely sure Lawrence was up to the job. "I appreciate your offer, Lawrence, but I have things quite well in hand, thank you. As to Mr. Anderson's replacement, however…"

"I see no reason I couldn't step in," Lawrence persisted. "I'll have you know, sir, I was quite a lady-killer in my day."

"Oh?" was all Roarke said.

Leslie couldn't stop the question from tumbling out: "Does that mean it's not your day anymore?"

Lawrence opened his mouth, then stared at her, slowly turning red. Roarke sighed softly. "Leslie," he said in gentle rebuke.

"Sorry," she said. "It's just…well, the way he said it…"

"It did come out rather…awkwardly," Lawrence admitted, as much to Roarke's surprise as to Leslie's. Concession to her tended to come only at Roarke's behest. "But I assure you, sir, I could do a very competent job in Mr. Anderson's shoes."

"I'm sure you could, Lawrence," Roarke said with a smile. "But don't worry, I'm quite satisfied with the arrangements I've already made." He noticed Lawrence's attempt to hide his affronted look, and added, "I could hardly spare you from your usual duties, you see. It's a busy weekend, and Leslie has already had to make amends for one small problem. I would feel much reassured if you were supervising the general activities here and seeing to it that everything was under control."

Lawrence's face cleared. "Ah, I see, sir. In that case, I shall endeavor to do my utmost to fulfill those duties to the very best of my ability."

"I have no doubt of that," said Roarke, and with that the two returned to their meals, while Leslie found herself wishing desperately that Tattoo would miraculously show up on the next plane with Solange in tow and announce that they'd decided they just couldn't live anywhere but on Fantasy Island. The atmosphere was so different now; there wasn't much lively banter at meals anymore, and Lawrence's formality occasionally struck her as stilted, even if it was just his natural way. She simply wasn't used to this.

So it was a relief when, about two hours after the midday meal, Roarke invited her to come along with him on his own rounds; she accepted with alacrity, and they first went to the plane dock to pick up the emergency shipment of grenadine. Leslie lent a hand to the burly young Polynesian men who worked as plane-dock attendants, loading the cases into the rover, while Roarke greeted the four or five vacationers who had arrived. Once they had dropped off a case to the swimming-pool bar, they left the rover at the main house and went on foot. On their stroll toward the new Japanese teahouse near the greensward, they took the time to just chat, without discussing anything serious. They shortly met up with Margaret Smith, just coming away from a small outdoor table with a glass in one hand; the table was being staffed by a young woman from the island's small Japanese community, someone Leslie didn't know and who wasn't related to any of her Japanese friends. "Ms. Smith?" Roarke called.

She paused on the pathway and smiled brightly when they stopped in front of her. "Mr. Roarke, I have got some apologies to—"

"Oh no, no," Roarke broke in, lifting a hand to stop her. "No apologies necessary. I can see you've been enjoying your stay with us." Leslie understood this remark; there was something different about Margaret Smith now, more relaxed and casual. "You're absolutely radiant."

"Oh, thank you," Ms. Smith said, blushing a little. "I'm so glad I didn't leave. As my daughter Virginia would put it, I am totally pigging out on happiness." Leslie laughed at that, and Ms. Smith grinned widely, winking at her.

"I'm delighted," Roarke said.

Some of the light went out of her face. "Oh, Mr. Roarke, I…how am I ever going to explain Jeffrey to her?"

"Are you afraid your daughter might disapprove?" Roarke asked.

"Well, she's not the type of girl to be surprised by anything," Ms. Smith said wryly, "except maybe this. Oh well…I'll think up something before I go back home."

"I'm afraid you'd better think of it now," Roarke warned her, glancing over her shoulder. "Your daughter arrived on the afternoon plane."

Ms. Smith turned around, startled, and Leslie focused on the woman approaching them from another pathway in the near distance. "Maggie!" she called, waving.

"Mr. Roarke, I don't think I can handle this," Ms. Smith said, beginning to panic, while Leslie grappled with her surprise that the woman's own daughter called her by her name—and a nickname at that, since Ms. Smith didn't seem the nickname type.

"Of course you can," Roarke reassured her. He had no time to say anything else, for the younger woman jogged up to them and gave Ms. Smith a quick hug.

"Are you surprised to see me?" she asked. Leslie assessed Virginia Smith; her auburn hair glimmered in the sun, and she looked assured, self-confident, even a little aggressive. Virginia drew back from her stunned mother, took in her expression and remarked dryly, "Boy, I'll say you're surprised—look at you." She chuckled.

"Well, of course I'm surprised, darling, but happy too," Ms. Smith said, recovering most of her composure. "Mr. Roarke, this is my daughter Virginia."

"I already had the pleasure at the plane dock," Roarke said, smiling at the redhead. "Well, I'm sure you both have a great deal of catching up to do, so if you'll excuse us…" He nodded to Leslie and stepped around the Smiths, and she followed, with another smile for the women. She glanced back once to see them hug again, and quietly wished Margaret Smith good luck in telling her daughter about her new boyfriend.


	20. Chapter 20

§ § § - October 8, 1983

When they finally got back to the main house, Lawrence was there, arranging freshly washed teacups in gleaming precision on a ceramic tray atop the tea table that had been installed in the study over the summer. He snapped up straight when Roarke and Leslie came into the room. "Ah, sir, I'm very glad you're back. I'm afraid I have bad news. Mr. Anderson had to be taken to the hospital after all. It turned out that he wrenched his back more badly than he had first believed, and I took him to see a doctor there. It appears he will be laid up for several days."

"Oh boy," murmured Leslie.

Roarke frowned. "Several days?" he repeated, sounding vaguely horrified.

"I'm afraid so, sir," said Lawrence apologetically. "Of course, I could still—"

"No, no, it's gone too far for that now," Roarke said through a sigh. "As always, I do appreciate the offer, but…" He focused on Lawrence. "Where is Miss Barnes now?"

"Back at her bungalow, I believe," said Lawrence. "She mentioned that Mr. Payne had gone to the open-air dining room…and taken his calculator, as he always does." At Roarke's look, he added hastily, "Her words, sir."

"What's this guy do that he's so suspicious of us, anyway?" Leslie asked.

"He's a certified public accountant," Roarke told her. "Apparently one who watches his pennies to an even greater extent than the stereotype would have it." He paused a few seconds, considering the situation; then he smiled. "I believe I have an idea. Leslie, perhaps you'd like to help me?"

"Sure, anything," she agreed. And when Roarke explained to her what his plan was, she burst into laughter. "I love it, that's great! Do you want to start right now?"

"I'd say there's no better time, miss," Lawrence put in. "If you don't mind my making a small suggestion, I'd offer a little advice. Try not to overdo your acting."

"Just because I didn't take drama classes in high school doesn't mean I can't put up a façade every now and then," Leslie retorted, goaded. "I've been here longer than you have, and I've actually helped Mr. Roarke a lot more than you think I have. I'm not just some glorified go-fer anymore." Even as she spoke her last statement, she found herself wondering uneasily whether it was really true.

Roarke chuckled. "Trust me, Leslie, you've never been a 'glorified go-fer', except perhaps in your earliest days here. You've learned a great deal and you've become invaluable to me. And Lawrence, I am sure she will consider your advice. Why don't you find out what tomorrow's restaurant and hotel menus are, in case we need to place any further emergency orders like this afternoon's."

"Yes, of course, sir," Lawrence agreed, looking a bit chastened. He fussed with a teacup that didn't look the least bit out of place to Leslie, then tossed Roarke an apologetic look and hurried out of the study. Roarke smiled faintly, then gestured for Leslie to come along with him.

Per his instructions, she made her way alone to the open-air dining room while he went to collect Deborah Barnes from her bungalow. Pausing momentarily on the perimeter, she scanned the tables and spied Dennis Payne sitting alone at a rear table, poking at his calculator and looking a little frustrated. He glanced up and stared at her as she approached his table. "Oh, hi there…Leslie, is it?"

"Yup. Hi, Mr. Payne. Do you need anything?" she inquired.

"Well…maybe just Debbie, but I guess she'll be along pretty soon." He shifted in his chair and eyed her. "Listen, I want to talk to you anyway. Mind sitting down?"

"Not at all, thank you," said Leslie and took a seat. "What's wrong?"

"This operation you and Roarke are running," Payne began.

Leslie held up a hand. "Sorry, Mr. Payne…but I'm not really running it. I'm more or less his employee." She glanced at the calculator and noticed a long list of numerical figures on a notepad beside it. "Let me guess…you want to talk about our prices."

Payne slapped a pencil atop the notepad and leaned forward, pinning her in place with a sharp stare. "It just seems to me that anybody who comes here and gets a bungalow, or a hotel room, for these exorbitant rates you charge—" He must have seen some shift in her expression, for he backed up a bit. "Excuse me—for these exorbitant rates Roarke charges. Anyway, I think it's highway robbery. At these prices, you should be including meals and drinks in the package. At this rate, Debbie and I'll go broke before tomorrow morning."

Leslie was suddenly grateful for the casual talk she'd had with Seth, the bartender at the pool, when she and Roarke had delivered his grenadine. "As a matter of fact, I happen to know that we charge forty percent less per drink, and thirty-three percent less for meals, than you'd be paying in places like Las Vegas or Honolulu."

On Dennis Payne's openmouthed gape, she noticed a flash of white in her peripheral vision and realized Roarke and Debbie Barnes must have arrived. Payne abruptly began tapping frenetically on his calculator again, and Leslie used his distraction to meet Roarke's gaze through the bushes and nod at him.

He nodded back, then turned to Deborah Barnes and mouthed, "Now!" at her, upon which Leslie immediately heard a light, high-pitched laugh. She grinned to herself, watching Deborah tip her head back. Payne's head jerked up and he stared into the bushes as she trilled, "It must be so romantic, living on an island like this."

"Yes, but it can also be very lonely…Deborah." Leslie was sure she'd seen Roarke cast the fastest of glances toward their table, just to be sure Payne was listening.

"I can't imagine a man like you being lonely," singsonged Deborah in that persistent New York twang of hers. "No way."

"Once in a blue moon," said Roarke, taking her hands in his, "someone like you comes along to remind me just how lonely a man can be. Even in paradise."

Deborah, her attention completely distracted from the increasingly agitated Payne, blinked rapidly in disbelief. "But…with all your beautiful lady guests…"

Roarke released a dismissive chuckle, then placed his hands on her upper arms. At this, Payne got to his feet and edged toward the bushes. "Have you ever stood in a crowd of hundreds of people," Roarke asked, "and felt lonely?"

"You've felt that way too?" Deborah said, amazed. "You?"

"Many, many times," Roarke replied wistfully.

"Maybe what you need is somebody to take care of you, to see that you're never lonely again," she said earnestly. "Y'know what I mean?"

Roarke placed a palm on her cheek and said, "I know exactly what you mean." He leaned forward as if to kiss her, and Payne promptly waded into the bushes while Leslie watched, both hands over her mouth to stop any telltale chortles.

"Debbie!" Payne yelled, shocking Roarke and Deborah apart.

"Oh! My gosh," Deborah stuttered. "Dennis!"

Roarke smiled broadly. "Oh, Mr. Payne, how nice," he said, his voice betraying just the right amount of startled nervousness. "I was just, um, uh, showing Miss Barnes around the island."

"Sure you were," Payne retorted caustically. "The deluxe tour, right?"

"Exactly," said Roarke brightly. He pulled out his pocket watch. "Well, I really must get back. Uh…" He focused on the young woman. "Thank you for a most beautiful afternoon, Deborah." He put a special emphasis on the name that made her stare at him with an odd look in her eyes. Lifting her hand, he began to kiss it, then changed his mind at Payne's threatening look. _"Au revoir_…for now."

Leslie, forgotten at Payne's table with the calculator and notepad, arose to leave herself, but paused when she heard Payne growl, "Oh, he's got some good thing goin' here, you know that? His line! His line is pure garbage. I mean, who does he think he's fooling with that 'lonely man in paradise' junk, anyway?" He paused as if allowing Deborah to respond, but she only made a little noise and wandered away from him. "Huh, Deb? Debbie?"

_Well, go after her, stupid,_ Leslie urged him mentally, but he merely stood there staring after his girlfriend. She frowned. Something about Deborah's reaction here struck her as decidedly strange. Maybe it was time she warned Roarke before it got any worse.

Lawrence's presence at the supper table didn't deter her at all. "I think it's time to back off from Deborah Barnes, Mr. Roarke," Leslie said without preamble. "You've definitely made Dennis Payne sit up and take notice. He's pretty mad by now."

"Oh?" said Roarke, looking pleased. "That's very good news, Leslie, thank you."

"In fact," she went on, toying a bit ostentatiously with her napkin, "it might be past time to back off. I mean…you're good, Mr. Roarke, you're really good—you did a truly thorough job of making Mr. Payne jealous. It's just…well…by now he might have a very good reason to be jealous."

By this time both Roarke and Lawrence were watching her with growing puzzlement and some impatience on Roarke's part. "Would you mind getting to the point, Leslie?" he prompted her.

She cleared her throat, glanced at Lawrence and mumbled, "Maybe you should've let Lawrence step in for Mr. Anderson after all."

"For heaven's sake, miss, why?" Lawrence demanded.

Leslie sighed. "I don't suppose you'll believe me. I know he won't." She waved a hand in Lawrence's direction. "But after you left, Mr. Payne was complaining about the lines he thought you were feeding Miss Barnes, and when he tried to get her to agree with him, she just walked away without saying anything. It was sort of hard to tell from the back, but she looked a little…um…well, dreamy."

"Now really, miss, how could you possibly discern a thing like that?" scoffed Lawrence. "Especially since you couldn't see her face."

"It was the way she walked," Leslie said. "And the fact that she didn't say a word to Mr. Payne was another tipoff."

"That's hardly enough evidence to convict someone on," said Lawrence dismissively and turned to Roarke. "Pay her no mind, sir. She's probably suffering from an attack of what women like to call 'female intuition'."

"Now Lawrence," Roarke said indulgently, "I wouldn't dismiss such a thing out of hand if I were you. However…" He looked at his daughter. "He does have a point about scanty evidence, Leslie. I submit that it was merely part of Miss Barnes' way of making very sure that Mr. Payne becomes jealous enough to make the proposal she so badly wants."

Leslie didn't buy it for a second, but she was outnumbered, and she knew they were both right, as little as she liked to admit it. "Okay," she said with a skeptical shrug, "if you say so." With that, she concentrated on her meal and let the men talk around her.

Roarke finished first and arose. "Take your time, both of you, please. I need to go to the luau to be certain everything is running smoothly." Lawrence and Leslie both understood this statement; Lawrence had been forced to make a trip down to the pineapple plantation and cadge more fruit out of them when the hotel manager reported that Jean-Claude, the hotel's irascible chef, had complained he was running short. "Lawrence, if you'll be so kind as to go to the hotel and speak with the manager to be sure that the dining room has all the supplies it needs for tomorrow, I would appreciate it. And Leslie, if you would kindly remain here and take any calls that come in, you might do me a favor and prepare the bills for payment." Thanks to her senior-year math class, she had learned how to manage a checkbook, and during the summer Roarke had turned over the chore of bill-paying to her, making arrangements with the island bank that her signature was to be honored on checks from his account from that point forward.

"Sure, I'll be glad to," said Leslie, picking up her glass. "Actually, I'm full, so I'll get started on that right now."

"I've had enough as well, sir," Lawrence said. "I believe a trip to the hotel will give me a chance to walk off my dinner."

Roarke nodded. "Very good, thank you both." They followed him along the veranda, where Lawrence split off to stride up the lane toward the Ring Road. Leslie trailed Roarke as far as the study, where she took a seat behind his desk and pulled out a drawer to retrieve the business checkbook. Roarke smiled at her, continuing out through the French shutters and across the terrace toward the jungle, which had been cleared back to a fair extent over the summer to provide a pleasant back lawn.

Leslie had opened the checkbook and was reaching for the first of the waiting bills when she suddenly heard a New York accent behind her. "Mr. Roarke—kiss me!"

Astounded, she pushed off with one foot to turn the chair around; there stood Deborah Barnes, grasping Roarke's hands. "I beg your pardon?" said Roarke blankly.

"Dennis hasn't let me out of his sight all afternoon," Deborah bubbled delightedly. "It's working!" Roarke smiled, and she threw a glance over his shoulder. "He's watching us right now." Roarke started to look, but she arrested the motion with a quick series of little yips. "No no no…don't look! Just kiss me." He stared doubtfully at her, and she nodded. "One kiss, Mr. Roarke, and you're lookin' at an engaged woman." With that, she shut her eyes and jutted her chin forward and up, puckering her lips.

Leslie watched, glued to the scene, while Roarke tried to look over his shoulder one more time, then popped the briefest of miniature pecks on Deborah's lips. Before he could do more than begin to step away, or Leslie stretch her own lips for the laugh that boiled up, Deborah grabbed Roarke and really planted one on him. Leslie's laugh died completely, particularly when there was no outraged shout from Dennis Payne.

Just then Lawrence entered the room, making her spin back around in the chair. "I thought you were going to the hotel," she said, startled.

"I stopped at the lounge first so that I could be certain everyone has what is needed for tomorrow," he said, passing the desk without breaking stride. "And unfortunately, they don't. It is necessary for me to inform Mr. Roarke."

"Oh," she murmured weakly, watching him go, unable to look away now. Lawrence strolled onto the terrace, then stopped short, while in the meantime Roarke's eyes flew open and nearly burst out of his head, as if he needed to release pressure and Deborah's kiss was stopping it up.

Finally she let him go, and he gasped for a moment, as if he'd forgotten to breathe. "Yes…well…that should hook him," he managed.

But if Roarke had been stunned, Deborah was no less so. "Hook…who?" she mumbled, then noticed Lawrence and Leslie staring in shock. She made a tiny, almost sheepish noise, patted Roarke's arm and walked away, looking slightly spaced out.

Belatedly Roarke followed Deborah's glance and saw Leslie and Lawrence, the latter of whom promptly started forward. Leslie, who by now had totally forgotten her task, just gaped while Lawrence stopped beside Roarke, cleared his throat and inquired drolly, "Rehearsing again, sir?"

Sternly Roarke informed him, "The kiss was for Mr. Payne's benefit, Lawrence. Miss Barnes said he was watching us. Probably from behind those bushes over there." This came out the side of his mouth; Leslie grinned, while Lawrence automatically turned his head in that direction. "No, no, don't look, don't look," Roarke hurriedly exhorted.

Lawrence stared at him. "If that is true, sir, Mr. Payne is a most remarkable young man," he said, a censorious note in his voice.

"Why do you say that?" Roarke asked.

"Because I just left him in the lounge," Lawrence announced. "He was starting his third sugarless cola." One of Roarke's eyebrows ascended slightly. "Is it possible, sir, that Miss Barnes was simply looking for an excuse to kiss you?"

For a full five seconds Roarke stared at him without moving a single facial muscle. Then he said, "Lawrence, I think we have a problem."

"_We,_ sir?" the butler retorted. Roarke's eyes widened as Lawrence produced a handkerchief and made a discreet wagging motion at him with one finger, then turned and made his way back toward the study. Roarke glared after him, dabbing at his mouth where Deborah had left some of her lipstick in her zeal.

Lawrence paused on the terrace when he noticed Leslie gawking, and glanced over his shoulder before turning an apologetic look on her and utterly shocking her. "I promise you, miss," he said low, "I will never again mock, or doubt, your female intuition." So saying, he strode back through the study, presumably on his way to the hotel.

Leslie was still gaping after him with her lower jaw dangling when Roarke came back into the room. "I must apologize, Leslie, for dismissing your suspicions," he said heavily.

Even more shocked, she turned her empty stare on him. "Uh…"

Roarke smiled wryly. "Do you find it so astounding that I should recant?"

"Not…um…well, not you," she managed at last, shaking her head violently a couple of times in the hope of getting her mind back on track. "It's Lawrence. He walked through here and told me he'd never doubt my female intuition again."

That wry smile just got more so. "And neither will I," Roarke vowed, before tugging at his tie, trying to button his already buttoned suit jacket, and finally rolling his eyes to himself and leaving on his original mission to the luau. Leslie watched him go, let a grin spread across her face, and finally got down to the business of paying the bills.


	21. Chapter 21

§ § § - October 9, 1983

Roarke suggested he and Leslie and Lawrence take their breakfast on the open patio at the greensward; when they asked why, he cited a change of pace. "I believe I could do with some fresh air," he said.

"We get fresh air on the porch," Leslie pointed out, bewildered.

Roarke awarded her a dirty look. "Is this idea repugnant to you?"

Lawrence and Leslie looked at each other, then scrambled to shake their heads and deny it. Roarke nodded once. "Then so be it. I've already informed Mariki, and if you'll do me the favor of serving, Lawrence…"

"Of course, sir," Lawrence agreed, his voice docile, his face anything but. Leslie had to grin at his expression. "I suppose we should be on our way right now. Shall we, miss?"

So there they were, eating while Lawrence poured tea for Roarke and Leslie refilled her own glass from a pitcher of clarified pineapple juice, when who should come trotting up the steps to the patio but Dennis Payne. "All right, Roarke," he snapped, "where's Debbie?"

"Good morning, Mr. Payne," Roarke said warmly. "Uh, Deborah…why, in her bungalow, I presume. Would you join me?" He gestured at the empty fourth chair.

"If she were in her bungalow, I wouldn't be here," barked Payne. "What's more, she wasn't _in her bungalow_ all night!"

Roarke looked at Lawrence in surprise. "That's curious."

"That's infidelity," Payne shot back. "She spent the night with you, didn't she?"

"She did not!" said Leslie hotly. "I'd have known if she was there!"

Roarke gave her a quelling look, while Lawrence offered, "May I suggest tea, sir; it's very calming for the nerves." He strolled around the table to refill the teapot.

"All I want is an answer," Payne said.

"To what question?" returned Roarke without missing a beat.

"Debbie came here to fulfill a fantasy. Just what in the hell _kind_ of fantasy is she having?" Payne demanded, his voice rising to a near yell.

"Does it matter?" Roarke inquired.

Payne snorted. "I don't believe in fantasy fulfillment."

"What do you believe in, Mr. Payne?" Roarke queried.

Payne glared at him, his eyes alight with rage. "We're not talkin' about me. I wanna know what her fantasy was!"

Fed up, Leslie stood up and glared right back at him. "To get you to propose to her," she snarled at him before turning to Roarke. "Sorry, Mr. Roarke, I just lost my appetite." She stalked away from the table, feeling it wiser to burn off her anger with a walk along the greensward before she could say anything inflammatory. She was so incensed at Payne's accusation, it was all she could do to keep from muttering angrily to herself before she was at least out of their earshot.

She left behind a ringing silence. Roarke and Payne watched her go; then Payne turned back to Roarke and blinked, neatly defused by Leslie's revelation. "Propose?" he said in a small, startled voice. "Marriage?"

"That's right," Roarke said serenely. "Marriage. After three years of being a steady date, always there when you wanted her and yet never quite sure when that would be, she wants something a little more substantial." He took a bite of _huevos rancheros_.

This seemed to throw Payne off balance; Roarke went on eating, but watched covertly while Payne slowly rounded his chair and paused on the other side. "Well…look, I want to marry Debbie, but…"

"But what, Mr. Payne? What is it that's stopping you?" Roarke asked, showing some impatience for the first time.

"My first marriage, that's what," Payne said, half resigned, half disgusted, as if he'd been reluctant to reveal this information. "Six years of disaster. You might say I'm a little gun-shy, okay?"

"Gun-shy?" said Roarke blankly, then brightened as if he understood. "Oh, because Miss Barnes is very much like your first wife?"

"Oh no, no, nothing like her at all," Payne said, seeming to give up and taking the chair where Lawrence had lately been sitting. "All right, you want to know what I believe in? Not hurting people, that's what I believe in." Roarke nodded understanding, continuing to eat his breakfast. "Especially people I love. I just don't want to run the risk of hurting Debbie the way my ex-wife and I hurt each other. Does that make sense?"

Roarke had paused to watch him; now he put down his knife and fork. "Yes, it does," he said, touching a napkin to his mouth before focusing fully on Payne. "But you may be hurting Miss Barnes even more by what you're doing to her now."

"You're right," Payne said abruptly, as if bludgeoned by the realization. "You're right. It's wrong of me to keep her hanging on like this. Hell, no wonder she turned to you for sympathy. Well…" He arose. "I'm gonna find her, and I'm gonna do what I should've done all along. Propose to her." With that, he departed at a half-run.

Roarke sat back with a smile and caught sight of Lawrence, who had stood discreetly aside all the while, having long since refilled the teapot. "I believe our problem is solved."

"_Ours,_ sir?" said Lawrence pointedly, returning to fill Roarke's cup again and blithely ignoring his employer's disgruntled look.

When Leslie returned and resumed eating her abandoned breakfast, Roarke filled her in on what had happened, and she nodded thoughtfully. "Huh. Well, at least he finally sees the light. I just hope it's not too late." She took a bite.

This remark made both Roarke and Lawrence freeze in position and stare at her. "And what would drive you to make such a statement?" Roarke asked ominously.

She looked up and blinked. "Oh…well, like I said, Mr. Roarke, you did such a great job of making Dennis Payne jealous, you might have done _too_ well. If she went and kissed you last night like that—and lied about him being there watching—well, you never know what might be going through her head now."

Lawrence frowned thoughtfully and peered at Roarke. "She may be correct, sir," he said in solicitous warning. "I think you should be prepared for that eventuality."

"Do you indeed," muttered Roarke. He drew in a long sigh. "Perhaps, in light of last night's events, I should have a little talk with Miss Barnes. Leslie, if you can finish that before I have finished my tea, you're welcome to come with me."

"Believe me, Mr. Roarke," Leslie insisted between bites, "I really hope I'm wrong. But you can just never tell about these things."

"Quite so," said Lawrence serenely. "More pineapple juice, miss?"

"Um…no thanks, I have enough," she said, faintly startled at Lawrence's sudden desire to fulfill her needs as well as Roarke's. Maybe, she thought in wonder, he had really meant it when he'd said he would never again doubt her female intuition. There could be hope for getting along with this guy after all…

About half an hour later, Roarke and Leslie finally found Deborah Barnes in the lounge, huddling over what appeared to be a glass of orange juice. At Roarke's behest, Leslie went to double-check with the bartender in regard to supplies, while he took the stool next to Deborah. "Miss Barnes, I've been looking for you."

"Oh, I…I just wanted to be alone," she said.

"Oh?" prodded Roarke.

"I wanted to…subtract my liabilities from my assets, as Dennis would put it," she said with a sheepish little grin. "I spent the night on the beach. It was fantastic."

Leslie, assured by the bartender that he had everything he needed, drifted a few feet closer to Roarke and Deborah, tuning in to their conversation. "Oh?" she heard Roarke say, for the second time. "And your liabilities and assets?"

"Well, let's just say I'm…I'm not so sure I wanna marry Dennis anymore."

"But—but that's your fantasy!" Roarke protested. Leslie closed her eyes and stifled a groan. _I knew this was gonna happen!_

She nodded. _"Was._ It was my fantasy." She peered up at him. "I know we were just pretending…trying to make Dennis jealous, but somewhere along the way, pretending became real for me." Her soft admission made Leslie stare at her in disbelief; it was probably lucky for Deborah that she was oblivious to this, for all Leslie could think about was how to extricate Roarke from this mess and avoid having to deal with a stepmother. The late Helena Marsh had already taken that position, for however brief a time, and she was too used to Roarke being a bachelor to accept anything else.

Roarke, however, smiled a little, reaching out and taking her hand. "Miss Barnes, in spite of all the romantic novels, people really don't fall in and out of love so easily. If we had met under any other circumstances, at best you would have thought of me as your friend." He kissed the back of her hand and smiled almost paternally at her. "Nothing more."

While she stared at him, Leslie sagged against the bar—and at that moment saw Dennis Payne walk in. She yanked herself upright, all instincts telling her to warn Roarke; but before she could do so, he spotted him with Deborah. "Debbie?" he called across the room from the landing on the stairway that led to the entrance.

But Roarke didn't need any warning. "I suggest you listen to what he has to say," he told Deborah, before releasing her hand and moving away towards the back where the door to the kitchen was located. Leslie waited where she stood, watching Payne join Deborah at the bar, before making sure the man was well occupied with his girlfriend before slipping around them and scuttling off in Roarke's wake.

She had almost caught up with him when she heard Payne exclaim, "Whaddaya mean, no? It's that Roarke, isn't it! I shoulda torn that guy apart when I had the chance!" At this, Leslie froze near the doorway, aghast.

"You never tore anything apart in your life," Deborah scoffed.

"Maybe not, but if you think I'm afraid of this guy, guess again!"

Exasperated, she said, "Oh, Dennis, will you stick to your calculator, all right? I just don't want you to get hurt."

"Me!" he shouted, and heads turned in the rest of the lounge. "Hurt?"

They noticed the looks, and Deborah muttered something; from then on their voices were too low for Leslie to hear, and she ducked into the kitchen. Roarke had just finished talking to someone back there, and when he saw her, he signaled at her. All too willingly, she followed, breathlessly relating what she had overheard as they exited the lounge through the employee entrance and ending with, "I think he's convinced it's all your fault, and he's gonna come after you sooner or later."

Roarke got into the driver's seat of a nearby rover. "Well, we'll have to deal with that when it happens. I have far too much to do, and I'll need your help." She slid into the front seat beside him. "Did you finish paying the bills last night?"

"Uh-huh. In fact, I took them to the post office before I went to bed," she said. "So what else do I need to do?"

"I think it best if you take a quick trip to the pool and make absolutely certain that Seth really does have all the supplies he needs." Roarke shook his head. "I can't understand what's been going wrong all weekend."

"Pure coincidence," said Leslie, nodding firmly when he glanced at her.

"Are you sure?" he teased, pulling out onto the Ring Road.

"Well, not really, but if I tell you I think it's a bad omen because you let Tattoo go and hired Lawrence in his place, you'll just get mad at me and tell me I have to learn to live with it. So I'm saying 'pure coincidence', and I'm sticking with it."

Roarke rolled his eyes, then laughed reluctantly. "I think I'll try to take that in the spirit in which I hope you meant it," he said, a faint current of warning in his tone that made her snicker. "In the meantime, I'd best check in with Ms. Smith. Too much else has backfired this weekend to let her fantasy fall through the cracks."

He found a very dejected-looking Margaret Smith aimlessly meandering along the greensward, and fell into step beside her. "I hope I'm not intruding," he said.

She smiled sadly and shook her head, then went back to watching her own feet. "No, not at all," she murmured.

Roarke took in her mien. "The last time I saw you, you were so happy, so radiant…what happened?"

"I had a rather ugly run-in with reality, is what's happened," she said listlessly. "I need your help."

"Of course," he agreed instantly.

"Well, I have to make a decision that's going to affect the lives of three people."

"Your daughter, Mr. Dorner, and yourself," Roarke prompted.

"Yes. However, I don't think I have the courage to make the choice I really want to make," she admitted.

Roarke nodded. "A choice that would fly in the face of convention, shatter the icons of public opinion, and flout the unwritten code of society?" he queried, amused.

Ms. Smith chuckled with him. "Oh, I think I could handle all that, Mr. Roarke," she said, stopping to face him as her features clouded over. "What I can't handle is my daughter's scorn, her pain."

"Then you've already made your decision," Roarke said.

She considered that, then nodded a little. "Yes…yes, I suppose I have, haven't I?"

"Your decision is still negotiable," he told her.

She only shook her head. "Not this one, I'm afraid. Thanks for the shoulder." She laid a hand on that part of him, smiled, then walked quietly away, head down again.

Roarke watched her go, thinking how unfortunate it was that sometimes things that seemed meant to be were constrained by ridiculous rules of all sorts. He shook his head a couple of times and made his way back to the main house. Over the summer Lawrence had convinced him he ought to start working out, to keep up his strength and stay in shape, which had amused him because he'd never really been out of shape; but he did think the extra exercise might do him a little good. And, truth be told, he enjoyed it, even though he rarely had time to do it very often. The beverage shortages seemed to have resolved themselves, so he found himself with just enough time for a workout.

Lawrence and Leslie both met him at an open-air gymnasium that had been added for the guests. This had been one of Lawrence's ideas, and it bore a certain popularity, although now, within an hour of the noon meal, it was deserted and they had it to themselves. Roarke had changed into sneakers, a sleeveless vest and matching sweatpants; they were assisting him in his workout, Lawrence by bracing the punching bag and Leslie by making sure her adoptive father had enough water to drink in between bouts. Roarke pulled out a pair of boxing gloves and began tugging them on.

Then Leslie spied a very angry-looking Dennis Payne striding around the bushes and heading straight for them. "Uh-oh."

"What's wrong?" Roarke asked, his attention mostly on the punching bag as he began raining blows on it.

Before she could reply, Payne yelled, "Roarke, I want to talk to you!"

"Certainly, Mr. Payne," said Roarke. "About what?" He ceased flailing his fists, which brought a look of relief sweeping across Lawrence's face, though he didn't change position from bracing the bag.

"About Deborah," said Payne, stopping a couple of feet away.

Roarke landed a few more punches on the bag; one particularly energetic one elicited a loud grunt from the otherwise stoic Lawrence. "Oh?"

"I've had it with you playing around with her," Payne blustered.

Roarke smiled broadly. "Bravo!"

Taken aback, Payne relaxed his combative stance. "Whaddaya mean?"

Lawrence straightened, evidently sensing a reprieve. "It should be obvious, Mr. Payne. Mr. Roarke approves of your flying to the defense of Miss Barnes' honor."

"Well said, Lawrence," Roarke lauded and began throwing punches again.

Payne got upset. "Roarke, I just asked Deborah to marry me just now, and because of you, she said no. I'm not gonna take that!"

"Bravo!" Lawrence said with an approving grin. He caught Roarke's look and subsided, murmuring, "As Mr. Roarke has already expressed." Looking resigned, he resumed bracing the punching bag. Leslie grinned.

Roarke, having decided he was sufficiently reprimanded, turned back to Payne. "I admire your determination and respect, and the depth of your emotion for Miss Barnes." He gave Payne a light thump on the chest with one gloved fist; Payne blinked and involuntarily stepped back. He looked worriedly on while Roarke landed eight or nine more quick, hard blows on the bag and Lawrence grunted quietly to himself with his eyes closed; then, with a smile at Leslie when she handed him a glass of water, looked at Payne again. "Now, what do you have in mind?"

"Let—" Payne began. His voice cracked and he tried again. "Let's just say that if this were the Old West, I'd be asking you to step out into the street."

"Oh," said Roarke softly, with great interest, meeting Leslie's and then Lawrence's gazes with nods and thoughtful looks. They mirrored his expression, playing along. Roarke regarded his glove, handed the glass back to Leslie, then gave the punching bag a calculating look before pulling in a breath, doubling up his gloved fist and letting fly with all his considerable power. Lawrence groaned in agony and squeezed his eyes shut; Payne winced in sympathy, and even Leslie flinched and took a step or two backward. They all watched while Roarke carefully extracted his hand from the hole he'd just put into the side of the punching bag; Payne's eyes widened several times as he took in the motions.

"I am at your service, Mr. Payne," said Roarke calmly, removing the gloves, "for whatever you have in mind."

Payne's mouth hung open; he looked as if someone had told him he had contracted chickenpox from that morning's breakfast. Then he sagged and shook his head, muttering, "What's the use? I get the definite feeling that no matter what I did, you'd manage to make me look like a complete fool. Deborah is yours, Mr. Roarke. Nobody can compete with you." Roarke, Leslie and Lawrence watched him walk dejectedly away; Leslie's mouth fell open with disbelief, which only grew when Roarke failed to stop his departure.

Lawrence released the bag and came around it to regard his employer with something akin to pity. "Really, sir, if you had let him hit you just once…lightly, of course."

"Oh, Lawrence," snorted Leslie, incredulous.

Roarke lifted a hand. "It's all right, Leslie. What I have in mind will ultimately prove painless for all concerned. I promise you." He included Lawrence in his scope, and the butler and Leslie looked at each other, mystified and very, very intrigued. Roarke slapped the gloves against his hand once, then gave them to Lawrence and walked away.

Lawrence regarded Leslie as she watched her adoptive father leave. "Well, miss, as you mentioned earlier, you've been here longer than I. What do you suppose he's thinking of in order to solve this thorny problem?"

She peered at him for a few seconds, then shrugged eloquently and said, "Search me." And with that, she strolled away in Roarke's wake, leaving Lawrence to contemplate the situation. She tried not to grin till she knew she was well out of his sight.

Roarke showered and changed clothes while Leslie monitored the phone; he was still upstairs when the double doors leading to the outer foyer flew open and the redheaded daughter of Margaret Smith marched in, exhibiting a rip-roaring temper to fit her hair color. "I want to talk to your boss, or whatever he is," she demanded, her voice sharp and frigid.

"My boss and my adoptive father, yes," Leslie said warily, folding her hands on the desktop to prevent any trembling. "He'll be down in a minute, he's getting freshened up."

"Fine, then I'll wait," said Virginia Smith in a clipped voice and parked herself in one of the club chairs. Leslie licked her lips and looked at the silent phone, the closed date book where her hands rested, the gold box containing the keys to the jeeps and rovers, the stairs, the terrace, the bookshelves—anywhere but at Virginia's icy glare.

She was deeply relieved when Roarke descended the staircase. "Here he is," she said and jumped out of Roarke's chair. Roarke noted Virginia's presence and raised both brows when Leslie edged around the woman's chair. "I've got something to do, if you don't mind."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, you do," Roarke agreed, halting her with a pointed look. "You are to answer any telephone calls, as I remember it." Leslie's face could have boiled water, it was so hot; she nodded meekly and slunk to her usual chair at the side of the desk, sinking into it and slouching a little in the hope of being overlooked.

Roarke settled into his chair and addressed Virginia with, "Yes, Miss Smith, how may I help you?"

"You can start by telling me what you plan to do about this…_situation,"_ Virginia retorted, spitting out the final word as if it were a fly she'd nearly swallowed. "You're responsible for this whole mess involving my mother, Mr. Roarke."

"I always accept full responsibility for my actions," Roarke said.

"Then why did you let her do it?" demanded Virginia without pause.

"I provide fantasies," he told her. "Fantasies, the stuff dreams are made of." She fell back in her chair, a disgusted look on her face. "And this was your mother's dream."

"Oh, to have a cheap affair?" Virginia sneered.

That made Roarke's brows fly up again. "Is that how you describe your own relationship with Mr. Dorner?"

"That's different," she spat.

But he continued without pausing. "How different?" To Leslie's surprise, Virginia sat slowly up, looking vaguely startled, as if the answer to the question had deserted her at just the precise moment she'd been about to expel it. "How different?"

When she didn't say anything, Roarke said, "Your problem, Miss Smith, may be that you are hypocritical." On her outraged look, he arose to round the desk, continuing, "You see, you like the freedom of being a modern woman, in control of her life; but when your mother wants the same thing, you rebel at the thought!" Leslie slumped farther yet in her chair; he was really angry, glaring at Virginia the way he might have glared at her had she committed some egregious breach of good manners.

Virginia stared at him. "Then you condone what she's done?"

"Oh, I make no judgments." Roarke took the other chair, regarding Virginia with a somewhat less severe frown. "But what has she actually done, except rediscover the joy of love—and loving?"

Virginia looked subdued for the first time. "You make me feel like I'm some sort of a monster," she said low.

Roarke's expression softened. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to. But we all must accept responsibility for our actions and our freedoms." He leaned forward to drive his point home. "And you forced your mother to choose between the two people she loves most in the world."

Virginia looked puzzled. "What do you mean, choose?"

"She said goodbye to Mr. Dorner," Roarke told her, "and is taking the next plane back to the mainland."

Virginia sat there stunned, processing this information; she arose, wandered toward the wall where a new curio cabinet sat beside the French shutters, stared across the terrace and then spun to gaze bewilderedly out the windows. "You've turned me all around," she mumbled, sounding a touch dazed. "I don't know what to think, what to do."

"Don't think at all, Miss Smith," Roarke said. He smiled at her startled look and got up to approach her. "That's right. Don't think at all, but do. Do precisely what your heart tells you to do." He touched her cheek for a moment, a gentle, reassuring, paternal touch.

Virginia nodded once he had released her, then swallowed visibly. She surprised Leslie when she turned to the younger girl and said quietly, "I'm sorry if I came on too strong and scared you. I was just…mad. Mad about…well, about something stupid." She met Roarke's smile with a sheepish glance, then ducked her head and scurried out through the French shutters, as if on an urgent mission.

Roarke watched her leave, then revolved on one foot to regard his daughter, who was still slouched in her seat, absorbing Virginia's unexpected apology. "Don't sit like that, Leslie," he warned lightly, "you'll hurt your spine."

She bolted up straight. "I thought for a few minutes that you were as mad at me as you were at her," she admitted.

Roarke grinned. "Did you indeed? Occasionally, my child, it takes a harsh blow to make someone see the light. I apologize if I seem to have included you in that blow, but I felt it best if you remained here, as I asked. What I had to say to Miss Smith was too important to tolerate interruptions."

"I could see that," Leslie said and grinned back, relieved. "Okay…so what's this grand plan you've got cooked up for Mr. Payne and Miss Barnes?"


	22. Chapter 22

§ § § - October 9, 1983

Leslie was at the lounge with Maureen Tomai that evening; Maureen's mother was doing a small catering job for a vacationing family whose daughter was celebrating her sixteenth birthday that day, and she hadn't needed Maureen, who'd been left at loose ends and called Leslie to see what she was up to. Leslie had briefed her on the weekend's happenings; she'd missed doing this ever since she and her friends had graduated from Fantasy Island High and most of the other girls had continued on to college in the states. Maureen, who expected to inherit the catering business when her mother retired one day, and Leslie, who wanted only to continue working in Roarke's business, were the only two who had forgone further education and remained behind. Now they were sitting over piña coladas at a small table, sharing a bowl of assorted appetizers and feeling very grown up now that they were eighteen and legally allowed to drink alcoholic beverages. "So Mr. Roarke's got some kind of plan, is that what you're saying?" Maureen asked.

"Yeah, but he didn't tell either me or Lawrence what it was…and we were both just dying," Leslie said low. "He even told us this was too urgent to wait long enough for us to have supper at home, and said we should get our own. So I was really glad when you called. I'm starving."

Maureen laughed. "Me too. Maybe we can have another appetizer platter—this is enough to make a meal out of. Where's this couple whose fantasy Mr. Roarke's trying so hard to grant?"

"Over there at the bar," said Leslie, discreetly pointing out Deborah Barnes and Dennis Payne, who had been talking for the last several minutes. "You should hear her talk; she has one heck of a _Noo Yawk_ accent." Maureen snickered.

Suddenly everyone in the lounge heard Roarke's voice ring across the room: "Still gloating, Mr. Payne?" Leslie and Maureen, like all the others, whipped around where they sat or stood, and the girls both gasped at sight of Roarke. He was nattily decked out in a tuxedo, looking quite debonair—except for the large bandage beside his left eye and another across the bridge of his nose. They could see a conspicuous swelling in his right cheek, too.

"Oh my God! How'd that happen?" Maureen squeaked.

Leslie, astounded, could only watch while Roarke stalked toward Payne and Deborah with an expression that could have soured ice cream. Deborah gaped and blurted, "Mr. Roarke, what happened?"

"He didn't tell you?" Roarke exclaimed, outraged, while Maureen and Leslie looked on with the fervor of baseball fans waiting for their favorite team to make a crucial out.

"Tell me what?" Deborah bleated.

"What happened this afternoon, at the gym?" Roarke provided.

"No!" she exclaimed. "Dennis, what…what're you hiding?"

Even though they could see only his back, the girls could tell Payne was thoroughly flummoxed. "I…I, uh, I'm not sure…"

Roarke indignantly filled in the breach. "What happened was, Mr. Payne came to the gym when I was totally exhausted from a workout, and insisted that we fight over you."

"Dennis? He did that?"

"Oh, he did more than that; he was a man enslaved by his passions! As you can see, it was a one-sided affair." Roarke winced and gingerly touched his swollen cheek. "While it lasted," he added, reaching for the bandage on his temple.

"Why didn't you tell me?" they heard Deborah ask in awe.

Payne shook his head, while Maureen stared at Leslie. "Did he really do something to Mr. Roarke? He looks like he really got hurt!"

But Leslie had seen the quick look Roarke had shot at the couple and was grinning. "No, he's just a darn good actor," she whispered. "Watch."

Payne had tried to speak while they were murmuring, but Roarke cut him off, outraged all over again. "Because, with all his rather brutal force, he's apparently a modest man, I give him that." Payne and Deborah stared; again Payne tried to speak, and again Roarke cut him off. "Now that you know the truth, I wish you both…good evening." With that, he straightened his jacket and walked away; he caught sight of Leslie and Maureen as he did so, and winked at them, making them both gasp and then smack hands over their own mouths to prevent gales of mirth from filling the lounge.

"Oh…Dennis," mumbled Deborah, obviously deeply impressed.

"Oh, Dennis, nothing," Payne snorted, catching the girls' attention once again while he stared after the departing Roarke. "I respect the guy for what he did just now; I mean, I really had him pegged wrong. But I never touched him, Debbie!"

"You didn't?" she said, eyeing him suspiciously.

"No," Payne said loudly. "No, he made up the whole story, because he thought—we _both_ thought that punching him out would make you love me."

"He's crazy," muttered Maureen, in a rattling voice broken by her almost fruitless attempts to dam up her giggling.

"Aw, Dennis, no," said Deborah, beaming up at him. "All I was lookin' for was some kind of proof that you loved me."

"Proof?" he echoed.

"Yeah, after three years of limbo and bein' romanced by somebody new, even if it was just pretend, I guess…well, I guess I just wasn't sure about anything anymore." She eyed him up and down, then smiled knowingly and said, "Now I am. Yes."

"Yes…yes what?"

"Yes, I'll marry you."

"After what I just told you!"

"Because of what you just told me," she clarified. "If you didn't love me, you never woulda told me the truth."

Leslie and Maureen watched him kiss her deeply, and grinned at each other; then Maureen tapped the table to get Leslie's attention and pointed over her shoulder. Leslie twisted around in her seat, and there stood Roarke, still looking battered and even slightly indignant, but with a twinkle in his dark eyes that spoke of not only his delight in seeing the couple reunited, but immense relief at extricating himself from an unwanted romance. They both caught the look, watching as Lawrence sidled up to Roarke and looked hard at him before smiling broadly.

§ § § - October 10, 1983

"Well, Mr. Payne, Miss Barnes," Roarke greeted them as they stepped out of the rover; he looked miraculously recovered. "Now that you are engaged, have you set the date for the wedding?"

"Well, I figure once I get the new promotion, start to feel comfortable with the job," Payne began, missing the looks Roarke, Leslie and Lawrence exchanged, "then maybe—"

Deborah rolled her eyes. "December tenth, two months from today."

Payne caught himself and smiled weakly. "Right."

"Thanks for everything," Deborah said, and on this they made their farewells. Leslie snickered when she was sure they were out of earshot, and Roarke grinned back.

Lawrence shook his head. "You're a marvel, sir, I admit it."

Roarke made a dismissive motion. "Sometimes, Lawrence, the thought of pain can also be a mother of invention." Lawrence smiled acknowledgment, and they all waved one last time as the second rover pulled up. Leslie had been astounded the evening before, when she'd been on her way up to bed, to learn that Roarke had decided to keep the rovers to shuttle guests back and forth between the plane dock and their accommodations.

This one discharged Margaret and Virginia Smith and Jeff Dorner. "Mr. Roarke," Dorner said, "I'd have to write a book to tell you how much we all appreciate everything you've done."

"And Ginny and I owe you a very special thanks," Ms. Smith added, beaming.

Roarke shook his head. "Your happiness is my reward," he said warmly. "Good luck to all of you."

"As a matter of fact, we're quite sorry to see you leave, aren't we, sir?" Lawrence said.

"Oh, indeed," concurred Roarke, and Leslie smiled her agreement.

Virginia waited while her mother and Dorner made their goodbyes and headed for the plane dock, then stepped out in front of Roarke. "You know something, Mr. Roarke, Maggie's right about age being no big deal."

"Indeed," Roarke said with a smile.

That smile faded abruptly when Virginia stepped a little closer to him and went on, "In fact, I'm giving very serious thought to finding an older man for myself." She smiled in a very particular way at him, shifting an equally meaningful glance at Lawrence and letting it rest on him. His eyes widened with alarm, making Leslie grin broadly.

"Well, if I run across a likely candidate, I'll put you in touch," Roarke promised, without missing the look she was aiming at Lawrence. She let out a laugh.

"Thank you," she said, shaking his hand and starting toward the dock. "Bye, Lawrence, Leslie."

Lawrence spoke without taking his wary eyes off Virginia. "Mr. Roarke…do you suppose that young lady was making a pass at me?"

Roarke started to answer, then snapped his mouth shut and stared at Lawrence in something bordering on disbelief, before remembering where he was and turning to the dock to wave a last time at their departing guests. Leslie rolled her eyes and let out her laughter, especially when Roarke cast Lawrence one last dubious look of his own.

§ § § - April 21, 2007

"So Lawrence wasn't such a bad guy after all, huh?" Myeko said, waggling her eyebrows at Leslie. "All those letters you wrote us telling us how you hated all the changes around here once he started working for Mr. Roarke, and how you couldn't get along with him even if you tried…"

"And how you wished Tattoo would come back," chimed in Lauren. "I got that in every single letter you wrote me."

Michiko grinned. "It came up in most of mine, too," she said.

Leslie sighed. "I guess I'll never live that down," she said good-naturedly. "I guess it was just such a strange year. I'd been looking forward to graduation all that spring, and how I'd finally get to be a full-fledged member of the team along with Father and Tattoo, and what a great year I was going to have really learning the rest of the ropes and finding my stride. And then Tattoo got married and left, and Father started having some heavy landscaping done and had the Japanese teahouse built, and then hired Lawrence—and all of a sudden the really drastic stuff started happening. Taking a different car to the plane dock every Saturday, moving the furniture around in here, closing off the inner foyer…"

"I had made a few changes in the last couple of years Tattoo was with us," Roarke reminded her, listening with great interest. "They didn't seem to bother you as much."

"Most of the time, they fit in with the existing architectural theme of the resort," Leslie explained. "For instance, the new stables you had built the year I started tenth grade. They were the same Queen Anne style as this house. There were a couple of new bungalows and some changes to a few of the existing ones, but they fit in with the established style and décor of the place. But when Lawrence joined us, it was like a total overhaul. There were nights I expected to wake up to find this entire house missing and replaced by some steel-and-glass fishbowl."

Everyone burst out laughing, and Christian hugged her. "Good grief, my Rose, I didn't know that. I suppose I can understand the origins of your revulsion to major changes, but I had no idea it had ever gone that far."

Roarke chuckled. "Don't feel left out, Christian; she never told me that last, either, so I had no idea exactly how much it really affected her. However, one weekend after she had complained a little too much about the changes—and not for the first time—I suggested that she might prefer to get a job cleaning rooms in the hotel, or apply for college and leave the island altogether. That quieted her…for about a week." They all laughed again.

"Yeah, I'm afraid I spent a lot of that year complaining," Leslie admitted with good grace. "I just felt cheated out of that wonderful first school-free year I'd been anticipating for so long. I guess it came out more emphatically than I realized."

"Did you ever feel as if she was just complaining for its own sake," Maureen asked of Roarke, "or were there times when you agreed with her?"

"Some of both," said Roarke with a smile. "As I recall, you were the only one of Leslie's friends in those days who remained here while the rest left for college. Did she spend a great deal of your time together complaining as well?"

"Well, she did sometimes," Maureen mused, "but we couldn't get together all that often for some reason, and when we did, she just wanted to catch up with what I'd been doing, and we spent a lot of time comparing letters from the other girls. One weekend she showed me one Camille had written that said something like, _Will you shut up about Lawrence already and write about something else for a change?_ She vowed to me after that that she was never even going to mention Lawrence's name to Camille again, no matter how much she wanted to tell her about something he'd done, complaint or no."

Camille reddened when everyone looked at her, and they laughed again. "I was in a crummy mood when I wrote that," she said. "I took it out in my letter to Leslie. And she did keep that promise. I went months without hearing a single thing about Lawrence. In fact, she didn't talk about anything having to do with the fantasy business at all! All she ever said was, _We had a good weekend,_ and then she'd write me a couple of pages of inane trivia about how Mariki was trying new recipes or she'd had another run-in with that grouchy old Jean-Claude at the hotel, or that the swimming-pool bartenders had a habit of getting stuck in a revolving employment door. When I came home that first summer, I told her she could complain about Lawrence all she wanted if she'd just stop sending me useless trivia—and that's when she told me Lawrence had quit and they were looking for his replacement!"

This too was greeted with laughter, and when it had died away Roarke settled back in his chair. "As tired as I occasionally grew of Leslie's seemingly endless complaining about Lawrence and all the attendant changes—which I believe she seemed to think he had brought about in many cases—there were times when I felt she was justified. I recall one weekend in particular when I believed it…"

Leslie grinned. "I think I know which one that was. I remember it because of all the name confusion going on…but that wasn't all." Her grin faded as she recalled the revelation she'd received that weekend. "Plus what I learned about you, Father…"

Roarke met her gaze and they each instantly knew that the other was fully aware of which weekend he'd had in mind. "Yes, I think you were quite in shock for some time thereafter. I myself was rather rattled."

"What revelation?" Michiko asked, speaking for most of Leslie's friends, who had taken on puzzled looks. "I don't remember your writing about that."

"I didn't write to any of you about it," Leslie admitted with a small shrug. "I didn't even talk about it with Maureen. It was just such a stunner for me. But at the same time, I learned something very important—a lesson that came back to me years later, after I'd fallen in love with Christian. It all started out innocently enough…"

§ § § - November 12, 1983

"Well, Lawrence," Roarke remarked when a formally dressed man in his mid- to late fifties emerged from the seaplane's hatch, "there's your friend, Mr. Baldwin—and his employer, Mrs. Leslie Darnell."

"Oh, her name's Leslie too?" Leslie exclaimed in surprise. "We don't see that many guests with my name. That's really cool." Roarke smiled, happy to see her interested in something besides complaining about Lawrence.

Lawrence had other things entirely on his mind, and barked out warily, "You do have the fantasy straight…?" Leslie stared at him, wondering what was making him so snappish, and Roarke slid him one brief sidewise glare.

"What fantasy is it?" Leslie prodded, trying to defuse the tension.

"Mrs. Darnell, a widow, wants to spend a weekend with her butler, as if they were two ordinary people in an ordinary relationship that could develop into what she has dreamed about for some time: a romance."

"Mrs. Darnell, ordinary?" Lawrence said doubtfully. "Oh, I do hope I haven't made a mistake…"

"The only mistake," Roarke said with a smile, "would be on Mrs. Darnell's part."

"How's that, sir?" Lawrence asked.

"The mistake would be in raising her expectations so high that she loses sight of the real man she wants to know."

Lawrence's brows popped up at this, but he let it ride, not least because their next guest was emerging from the plane just then. She walked slowly, using a cane, but didn't let it stop her from enjoying her surroundings. "That lady, sir…I remember her. She was a great dancer some years ago."

Roarke nodded and said gravely, "Ms. Julie Mars—some say, the most talented dancer of the modern era."

At first not noticing his tone, Leslie giggled. "First a Leslie, now a Julie. I hope our Julie doesn't need anything for her B&B this weekend."

Roarke cast her a brief little smile but made no comment; instead, it was Lawrence who spoke. "As I recall, she mysteriously retired at the very height of her career." His smile died when he took a closer look at her. "She uses a cane," he murmured, astonished.

"Her retirement was forced, Lawrence," Roarke said, in that same low, dire tone, and this time Leslie heard it. "An automobile accident."

"What a dreadful tragedy," said Lawrence, shocked.

"Yes," Roarke agreed. "She was injured right here on Fantasy Island." This made Lawrence and Leslie exchange startled glances. "And her fantasy is to dance once more."

"Her fantasy must be difficult for you to arrange, under the circumstances," ventured Lawrence.

"More than you know, Lawrence," Roarke said softly, his face regretful. "You see…I was the one who was responsible for her accident." On Leslie's and Lawrence's stares, he accepted his glass and made his toast, although they both noticed he had to make quite an effort to recover his usual welcoming cheer. It collapsed when he met the gaze of Julie Mars, whose dark eyes penetrated anything they touched.

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie Darnell had had enough time to change her clothes and take a little break from her traveling when Roarke, Lawrence and Leslie arrived at her bungalow. Mrs. Darnell's butler was nowhere in sight, rather to Lawrence's disappointment, so that he had to accompany them rather than having the chance to stay behind and chat with his friend. Meantime, Roarke gestured to the girl and said with a twinkle, "You have probably already heard about Lawrence from Mr. Baldwin; may I now present my recently adopted daughter, Miss Leslie Hamilton."

Mrs. Darnell blinked, then lit up. "You'd be very surprised how rare it is for me to meet someone who shares my name! I'm happy to meet you, Leslie."

"It's good to meet you too, Mrs. Darnell," Leslie said and willingly shook hands; her characteristic shyness seemed almost nonexistent this time, Roarke thought with quiet approval. "It's the same with me—I don't meet other people with my name."

"Call me Leslie, if you don't think it'll be too confusing for poor Mr. Roarke," said the older woman with a wink.

Leslie laughed. "I don't know about Mr. Roarke, but it might confuse me." Mrs. Darnell laughed with her, then winked at her again and turned to Roarke.

"So what about my fantasy? I believe I explained everything to you in my letter," she said. "Or should I say, the letter Baldwin wrote for me…"

Roarke smiled. "If you like, we might take a walk; I'm sure you'd like a little exercise after your flights." Mrs. Darnell agreed to that, and soon the foursome had made their way to the painstakingly authentic Japanese garden that surrounded the teahouse.

"You know, Mr. Roarke," Mrs. Darnell said through an embarrassed laugh, "I'm as excited as a debutante!"

"It becomes you, Mrs. Darnell," Roarke said with an indulgent smile.

"A debutante ball is such a lovely, old-fashioned tradition," Lawrence remarked with a sense of wistfulness in his tone.

Mrs. Darnell caught Leslie's eye and the namesakes grinned at each other. "I'm sure Leslie and her friends wouldn't be the slightest bit interested in a debutante ball." Leslie could only shrug sheepishly, and again Mrs. Darnell laughed, this time in a self-deprecating way. "Where I come from, _everything_ is old-fashioned and full of tradition."

"Which is why you are here," said Roarke. Mrs. Darnell chuckled agreement, and at that point they came upon a small black-lacquered table with three matching chairs, set on the path itself in a spot where one could see almost everything in the garden. Of all the changes that had come about since Lawrence's arrival, this was just about the only one Leslie liked. The garden was elegant and beautiful, complete with a koi pond and a steep, red bridge crossing it; through a stand of carefully preserved willows, the Japanese teahouse was visible. The table was covered with a nearly ground-length cloth and laid out for tea.

"Well, Lawrence," Roarke remarked with approval as Lawrence pulled out a chair for Mrs. Darnell, "trust you to think of everything." He took a chair as well; Leslie, unsure, stood aside watching.

"I try, sir," Lawrence said with a smile. "I do try." He set about filling delicate porcelain cups from an equally delicate porcelain teapot while Mrs. Darnell gestured Leslie firmly into the one remaining chair, then turned to her adoptive father.

"You know, Mr. Roarke, not once in all the years we've been together has Baldwin ever let it show," Mrs. Darnell said.

Lawrence stopped pouring and looked at her askance. "Let…what show, madam?"

Roarke threw him a look that said he couldn't believe the butler could possibly be that dense; Leslie rolled her eyes, and Mrs. Darnell peered up at him as if surprised. "That he feels…well, what I feel." She grinned a little sheepishly, a strange mien for so elegant a lady.

"Could it be, Mrs. Darnell, that your curiosity about the man behind the cool, professional exterior has led you to read something into the relationship that doesn't really exist?" Roarke inquired.

She shook her head. "No…no, Mr. Roarke, it's real. For both of us—I've felt it."

They heard footsteps, and looked around to see Baldwin crossing a smaller, nearby bridge toward them. Leslie arose when she caught Roarke's look and he nodded firmly once at her; Baldwin seemed not to notice either her or his old friend Lawrence when he paused at their table. "Forgive the delay, madam," he said. "I've seen to it the maid's finished your unpacking; I sent the gown you selected for tonight's reception to be pressed, and I've confirmed your luncheon reservations."

"Thank you, Baldwin," Mrs. Darnell said and gestured at the chair Leslie had just vacated. "Now please, sit down."

"Very good, madam—" Baldwin's automatic response died and he froze as he realized exactly what she'd just said; he turned back to her and leaned down as if to hear her better. "I'm sorry, madam, did you just say…'sit down'?"

"It's quite all right, I assure you," Roarke said, getting out of his own chair, which Lawrence shifted to face Baldwin. "Please join us, won't you?"

"Yes, do," Lawrence urged low, grabbing Baldwin's sleeve and tugging him over before firmly seating the bewildered man. Roarke took Leslie's chair, and she hovered behind it, beginning to feel like an intruder on a private moment.

Mrs. Darnell then compounded Baldwin's confusion by saying, "Baldwin, I…I don't want you to be my butler anymore. Uh—for the time being, anyway."

"I'd always thought my services were satisfactory," he said, sounding hurt.

"Oh, they are!" Mrs. Darnell assured him. "As far as they went…" She caught herself stammering. "That's really not what I meant to say; I—" She closed her eyes and released an impatient breath. "Lawrence, help me with this, please!"

Lawrence tried his level best. "Uh…well, Baldwin, dear fellow, Mrs. Darnell's fantasy is for you two to spend the weekend…shall we say…" He trailed off, his gaze sliding to Roarke, who prodded him on with a couple of hand motions. Finally Lawrence went on, "Together. Not as employer and employee, but as, uh, man and woman."

Baldwin stared at Mrs. Darnell in amazement. She essayed a hopeful smile, but something changed in his face and he stood up abruptly. "Is this a joke?"

Mrs. Darnell's face collapsed, and Leslie felt sorry for her. "No," she said, flustered and clearly very disappointed. "Oh dear…" She murmured something, glanced desperately at Roarke and then got up to face Baldwin directly. "Baldwin, all these years together…I—I always felt there was something very special…even personal between us. I…" Again she threw Roarke a pleading look. "Surely I couldn't have been mistaken…"

He smiled a little and obliged. "It will be just for this weekend, Mr. Baldwin. Two short days to test this feeling Mrs. Darnell described. You haven't denied that special contact between you and Mrs. Darnell, so…what do you have to lose?"

Baldwin seemed very much out of his element. "I…I'm not sure yet."

Roarke smiled and stood. "In any case, it's a beautiful day; Fantasy Island is yours to enjoy, so why not take your charming companion to lunch, hm?"

Baldwin glanced back and forth between him and a hopeful Mrs. Darnell, then smiled and extended one hand toward her. She stepped to his side and grasped his other arm, and they walked along down the path together, crossing the bridge via which Baldwin had first joined them.

Lawrence looked back at Roarke and Leslie, the latter of whom was watching with a hopeful smile. "I truly hope you've started them off well, sir," he muttered.

Leslie clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, just behind her front teeth, and pointed out, "Come on, Lawrence, it's silly to worry when you know there's no way you can control what happens. It's all up to Mr. Baldwin and Mrs. Darnell."

"Precisely," said Roarke and nodded. "Well, then, Lawrence, if you'll kindly handle the disposition of the table and tea service, I have an appointment with Ms. Julie Mars. If you'd like to accompany me, Leslie?"

She nodded agreement and walked back along the Ring Road with him into town and to the theater, which had seen a surprising amount of service, given the size of the island. The drama classes at Fantasy Island High usually performed their plays here, and the stage had been the backdrop for many a comedian, singer, band or other performance artist or troupe; it had even been the site of a mock game show for a fantasy the year before. Roarke and Leslie entered from the backstage door and wandered out onstage through the wings; Leslie noticed that it was sparsely decorated, as for a performance, with long fake filmstrips hanging from the overhead rafters and a mockup of a film projector reel at stage left. She followed Roarke out under the proscenium and toward the orchestra pit, where at the far left, there stood a sign advertising a film festival being held that weekend.

She hesitated when Roarke stopped and gazed at the sign, his eyes losing focus; he stood silent for so long that she began to worry. Then she heard Lawrence's voice: "Sir, is anything wrong?"

Roarke didn't move, and Leslie was afraid to jolt him from whatever reverie he'd lost himself in. Lawrence tossed her an impatient look and crossed the stage to repeat himself. "Sir, I said, is there anything wrong?"

Roarke blinked once, the only sign of any startlement, and sighed quietly. "I'm quite all right, Lawrence," he said. "Miss Mars is meeting me here."

"Yes sir," Lawrence said. His expression became a little hesitant. "Of course, I know nothing about the accident involving Miss Mars, but…if there's anything I can do for you now, anything at all…"

Roarke lowered his head, the smallest of smiles on his features. "I appreciate your concern, Lawrence," he said, the shadows settling over him again, "but…don't trouble your head over my problem."

"As a matter of fact, sir, I was practicing a bit of advice I've often heard you give." At Roarke's quizzical look, he quoted: "When considering yourself, use your head; when considering others, use your heart."

For the first time, Roarke's smile was genuine. "Thank you for reminding me, Lawrence," he said softly, and Lawrence nodded, smiling back. "Thank you."

Lawrence gave the slightest of bows, then turned and retreated the way he'd come, passing someone else on the way in. They greeted each other too low for Roarke and Leslie to hear, and Leslie turned to her father with a deepening worry. She was sure there was something very odd about this fantasy, even past Roarke's idea that he was responsible for Julie Mars' injury. Roarke noticed her gaze and smiled gently, stroking her hair once; it failed to really reassure her, but for now she accepted it.


	23. Chapter 23

§ § § - November 12, 1983

Julie Mars had stopped in the wings when she saw them. She was a tall, willowy lady who had never lost her dancer's physique; her dark hair was caught up in a simple but elegant twist, and those piercing dark eyes grew warm when she saw Roarke. He tensed and straightened, then strode across the stage to meet her, purpose in every step. Nervous and a bit intimidated, Leslie hung back where she stood, sensing more and more that there was much more to this fantasy than a mere desire to dance again. Why in the world would Roarke be so intense, guilt over Ms. Mars' accident aside?

"The last time I saw you was five years ago, right here in this very theater, after my last performance," Julie Mars said reminiscently. Leslie calculated quickly: five years ago? That would have been shortly after she was orphaned, right around the time she'd gone to the Lassen County, California, courthouse with Cindy Lou Brooks' parents and learned she was to come here to Fantasy Island. She tried to remember whether she'd heard anything about an accident involving a famous dancer, and announcements of her subsequent retirement, but came up blank. She supposed that was reasonable enough; she had been involved in her own grief over the loss of her mother and sisters, and trying to cope with her rapidly deteriorating friendship with Cindy Lou. There hadn't been room for much else.

"And you were running out that door," said Roarke softly. She nodded, and he said, "I've always blamed myself for not stopping you. Oh, Julie…why did you take the car? Where were you going that night?"

Leslie completely forgot her thoughts and stood staring at them, mostly hidden in the shadows beside the curtain, watching Roarke grasp the dancer's shoulders. He'd called her Julie; just how well did he know her?

"That special place that you took me once," she said, "when you told me that you could never leave the island—not even for our love."

Leslie stiffened with shock. _They were in love?_

Roarke dropped his hands from Julie's shoulders and hung his head. He grasped her hand and pressed it to his cheek, anguish radiating from him in an almost visible aura that began to scare his daughter. "Oh, Julie…I'm so sorry it happened. I was devastated. And you wouldn't let me see you after the accident, even to tell you that."

"I didn't want to hear you say 'I'm sorry'. I wanted to hear you say 'I love you'."

"Oh, I always loved you. I still do." The last three words came out in a raw whisper; she reached up to touch his face, and they kissed, ever so gently. Leslie gaped, unable to move, head awhirl. Questions began popping into her brain like bubbles breaking in a pot of boiling water.

"And I love you too," Julie said. "What happened was a long time ago. But you're still here…and the only thing that's changed is that I walk with this cane." Their gazes dropped to it simultaneously; he slipped his hand tentatively atop hers as she went on with a tremor in her voice, "And I don't believe in miracles anymore."

"I can give you your fantasy, Julie," said Roarke low.

"To dance? To dance the way I used to dance?" She was disbelieving.

"Yes," he said simply.

Cautious hope began to light her face. "Oh, darling…please, please…"

Roarke raised his hands and lightly bracketed her face. "You must understand, you can tell no one else about your fantasy. It will last only for these two days of the film festival." His voice was intense.

"Oh, I don't care," she exclaimed softly, those piercing dark eyes taking on a shine.

"Then stand here," Roarke instructed quietly. He started for the stage-right wings, and she turned to follow his progress, but he raised one hand. "Now don't move," he whispered. "Don't move." She froze where she stood, and he continued on to a small podium with a set of controls on it, pushing three or four buttons.

The stage lit and a fanfare swelled up, so suddenly that it made Leslie start violently, after such intense quiet. Julie whirled around and saw the same thing Leslie did: sheer curtains parting to reveal a woman in a long, shimmering green cape, backlit by candelabras.

Roarke returned to center stage and said, "Now—dance, Julie."

She looked aghast, and her eyes automatically went to the cane. "I can't!"

"You can," Roarke said quietly. "You can."

Julie stared up at the other woman; Leslie thought the new dancer looked rather like a much younger Julie Mars, perhaps as she'd been in her heyday. The dancer spread her cape wide to reveal a lavender dancing costume and began cavorting around her stage with the kind of grace Leslie could have aspired to only if she'd possessed an entirely different body. Julie watched as though mesmerized; Leslie saw Roarke say something to her, and though the music drowned him out, a second or two later, Julie slowly relinquished her cane, never taking her eyes off the dancer. Roarke wrapped an arm around Julie's waist, grasping her hand, and Leslie saw him saying the words: "Dance, Julie. Dance!" With that, he launched her forward, and she twirled away from him, catching herself in the middle of the stage and staring at him wide-eyed.

Roarke went back to the podium and punched another button; like the magic Leslie suspected he possessed, the live dancer disappeared and was replaced by an aging film image of Julie Mars in her prime, perhaps before Leslie was born. Both she and Roarke watched as Julie began to dance, following the movements of her film image, not quite coordinated but with all the grace she'd exhibited in the original performance. Her face grew more and more exuberant, and when the dance ended she whirled across the stage and threw herself into Roarke's embrace, jubilant. And at last, he too was laughing for the sheer delight of it. "Oh, Julie, Julie…what a joy to see you happy again!"

She chortled gleefully and they hugged each other hard once more; but Leslie could see Roarke's face, and worry settled over it like storm clouds. For the first time since he'd gone to greet Julie, his eyes met hers, and he looked very startled, as if he had utterly forgotten he'd left her standing there.

Leslie suddenly felt awkward, as though she shouldn't have been here at all; she had the feeling she should have left with Lawrence. But Roarke hadn't banished her from the theater, so she had stayed put, and for her pains had learned more than she'd ever expected…maybe more than she'd ever wanted to know. She turned away before Roarke could speak or move, and tried to hide herself still farther back in the shadows.

"No, no, no, no…" Roarke said, his soft voice now clear in the sudden silence. "Come here." Leslie peered warily over her shoulder in time to see Julie step back with a surprised look on her face, and Roarke smiled at her. Was it Leslie's imagination, or did it look forced? "I'm sorry, Julie, there's been one more change since you were here last. I now have a daughter; her name is Leslie."

"A daughter?" Julie repeated in astonishment. "What on earth have you been doing these last five years?"

Roarke laughed. "More than you think, hm?" he teased. "No, the truth is, Leslie started out as my ward. She completed her compulsory schooling this past May, and as a graduation gift, I formally adopted her. She's eighteen years old and has lived here for almost five years; she arrived here a few months after your accident." He paused, suddenly aware that he and Julie still occupied the stage alone, and turned to search out Leslie in the wings. "Come out, Leslie, we won't bite."

She wasn't so sure about that, but she ventured onto the stage anyway and slowly crossed, trying not to shiver under the dancer's drilling stare. But there was interest in the older woman's eyes; and when Leslie finally got within Roarke's reach and was pulled, with some reluctance, into his embrace, she smiled. "So you're Mr. Roarke's daughter."

Leslie let her head fall forward; whatever shyness she had shed around Leslie Darnell came back double around this woman. "Yeah, that's me, I guess."

Roarke's chuckle was warm. "There is no 'I guess' about it, young lady, and well you know it. Julie Mars, may I present Leslie Hamilton."

The dancer reached out and grasped Leslie's hand to shake it before Leslie could find the courage to even raise her head. "I'm happy to meet you, Leslie. How did you come to be Mr. Roarke's daughter? He certainly didn't mention anything about you before."

"My mother did it," Leslie mumbled, barely able to meet Julie's gaze. "She had this fantasy before I was born, and Mr. Roarke showed her the future, and she found out she and the rest of my family were going to die, so she made Mr. Roarke promise to raise me…and he's been stuck with me ever since then."

"Stuck with you," Roarke echoed and rolled his eyes, evoking a peal of laughter from Julie. "Stuck, indeed! As a matter of fact, she's quite a delightful young lady, and she's been a great help to me in my business. She is shy sometimes, however, so don't mind her." He lifted Leslie's chin with one finger and winked at her, and she smiled a little, primarily because she felt she should. One of Roarke's brows quirked, but other than that he didn't react, merely smiled back. Turning to Julie, he said, "Perhaps you'd like to have lunch with us—Leslie, Lawrence and me."

"I'd love it," she said immediately. "Could you do me a favor now and let me have some time in here by myself? I want to dance—just because I can."

"And you shall have it," Roarke said warmly, smiling broadly at her. "Come, Leslie, let's leave the lady to her heart's desire."

Despite all the questions crowding her brain, Leslie somehow felt loath to ask, as if it were the wrong moment, or she might be intruding too far on her father's privacy. Instead she quietly accompanied him out, and said nothing at all the entire way back to the main house. She was aware that Roarke cast her a few bewildered looks along the way, but she didn't bother to enlighten him. Too much was circling her mind just now.

Only when they were crossing the terrace toward the study did she speak at last. "I think I'll go see if everything's okay with Mrs. Darnell," she said, her voice subdued.

Roarke didn't contest her. "Very well, Leslie," he agreed in a gentle tone, but then stopped her with a hand on her shoulder as she started to retrace her steps. "My child, if you wish to talk…I realize you have many questions."

She didn't bother to ask how he knew; either she knew better by now, she thought distantly, or she just wasn't in the mood to be stunned by his abilities right now. "Maybe," was all she said. He held her in place another moment with his gaze, then nodded and released her, turning away. She made good her escape; for the first time, she wanted to search out Lawrence, even if only to locate Leslie Darnell.

She found him at the open-air dining room, hovering beside one of the columns supporting the decorative arches; he was standing on his toes, as if searching someone out. She paused beside him, amused at his expression. "Looking for someone?"

Lawrence blinked in astonishment at her. "Oh, hello, miss. I simply wanted to be certain Mrs. Darnell and Baldwin were enjoying themselves." Again he peered past the post, and this time apparently spotted his quarry, for his face lit in a smile. "And it seems they are. Excuse me, miss, I'm afraid I have duties that call." He nodded at her and brushed past with brisk strides.

Feeling lost, Leslie stood where she was, watching the dining-room employees going about their business. A movement caught her attention then and she watched one of the native girls pass by carrying leis; the girl paused in front of two elegantly dressed women who appeared to be in their forties. They both refused the leis and headed into the dining area behind one of the waiters; one was saying, "…might be tacky, but it's absolutely beautiful," presumably about the leis, Leslie thought. About to leave, she changed her mind when she saw them both stop short to stare at something; then the one who had just been speaking exclaimed in an overly syrupy voice, "Leslie, darling!"

Leslie almost responded automatically before she realized they were talking to Leslie Darnell, not her. She could see Mrs. Darnell and her butler, Baldwin, through the bushes screening off one side of the dining area; even as she watched, both Baldwin and Mrs. Darnell got up and made a hasty retreat. "Leslie!" protested the same woman.

Caught, Mrs. Darnell paused and began to stutter, trying to smile; finally she managed, "Why, Rachel…Audrey! Imagine bumping into the two of you! Listen, I-I must rush off, but we'll see you later…bye!" With that, she rushed away.

The one addressed as Rachel, who had been speaking all the time, remarked, "That man she's trying to hide…I'd swear that was Baldwin!"

"Her butler?" Audrey exclaimed. "Leslie having lunch with…her _butler?"_ She sounded as if she had just gotten the scoop on the world's juiciest piece of gossip. "Now why would she do that?"

"Now isn't that an interesting question," Rachel mused. "Or, to put it another way… are you kidding? A great-looking guy in a great place? They're having a ball…or at least, he is." She looked at Audrey, putting herself in profile and allowing Leslie to see the smirk on her face.

"Somehow I never expected it of her," remarked Audrey.

Rachel shrugged. "Of course, she's always put on a great act. Mrs. Respectability." Her voice was mocking. "I've always felt she was one-upping me on that—a moral, righteous tone nobody could live up to."

Audrey peered at her with evident surprise. "You put on a pretty good act yourself. I thought you liked her."

"I don't like hypocrites," Rachel said, staring after the vanished Mrs. Darnell and Baldwin, "but I love seeing that she has clay feet herself. All the way up to her neck." That made Audrey laugh, and they drifted off, talking in tones too low for Leslie to hear.

Leslie was incensed. _If you don't like hypocrites, Rachel whoever-you-are, then you must really hate yourself!_ she thought in disgust. She glanced around the area, but Lawrence was long gone and she wasn't sure what his destination had been. Maybe it was best to just head for home and see if lunch was ready yet…and then she remembered: Julie Mars was supposed to be there. Her roiling feelings cascaded back into her consciousness and she shook her head to herself, wondering if she could possibly get away with eating lunch with one of her friends or even having the meal right there in the dining room.

As it turned out, she was trudging along a path that led past the bungalows when a couple of the native girls who did cleaning there accosted her. "Miss Leslie…we need your help. Mr. Roarke made it clear that he wants flowers and chocolates and champagne placed in Ms. Mars' bungalow, but we haven't been able to get them because of the VIPs staying in the hotel."

Leslie knew what she meant. "Probably all those showbiz characters who're here for the film festival this weekend. Okay, I'll see what I can do. Thanks for the heads-up." She was grateful for more than one reason; her search for these items would take her straight through lunch, giving her a good excuse to grab a quick bite somewhere else.

It took her over two hours to round up the flowers, chocolates and champagne, and she was able to deliver them to the same native girl who had apprised her of the problem before heading back home at last. Roarke was working in his office when she came in, and gazed curiously at her. "Where have you been? You missed lunch, and Julie asked about you. She was very interested in talking with you."

Leslie stopped in the middle of the room, surprised. "She was?" At Roarke's nod, she shrugged self-deprecatingly, glad to have a legitimate excuse. She explained what had happened, and Roarke nodded acceptance.

Just as he opened his mouth to say something, the grandfather clock chimed, and his attention was diverted. He seemed startled at the time; it was already two-thirty. A look of consternation crossed his features and he arose, sighing. "The cocktail party is at three, and I think it best if we begin getting ready now," he said.

"We're going to be late," said Leslie, very surprised.

Roarke studied her. "Perhaps we wouldn't have been, had you been here earlier."

She stepped back. "I guess I'll go upstairs and change," she said and fled, despite his calls for her to come back. _I had a good reason, and he even said so,_ she thought. _Do I really have to go to this party? Oh, why can't I talk to someone about all this?_

There was a simple but elegant green gown with half-length sleeves, trimmed in silver-shot green satin and with a sash in this same material, lying across her bed, as if waiting for her. She closed her bedroom door and changed clothes, then made a slow production out of straightening the room until it was five minutes to three and she could hear Roarke calling for her from downstairs. She knew she was avoiding him; but as much as she wanted to ask him questions, to hear his explanations, she just wasn't ready yet.

Roarke was holding the pumps that matched her dress, she saw as she came down the steps in her nylons. "Hurry," he urged, handing her the shoes as she came within reach; she dropped them on the floor and stepped into them, without a word. Silently she trailed Roarke across the room and out the door to the sedate brown coupe that sat in the lane by the fountain.

Before he started the car, however, Roarke looked hard at her. "You have questions, and I do want to talk to you," he said. "But you'll never get the answers you want if you go on avoiding me as you are."

Leslie blushed fiercely and stared at her hands, folded in her lap. "It's just…" A sense of bewildered outrage swept over her, making her look up. "How come you never told me anything about Julie Mars? Especially that you were in love with her? I thought the love of your life was—" She slammed her mouth shut, realizing what she'd nearly said.

"Helena," said Roarke quietly, and she nodded, her face redder than ever. "I'll explain everything to you when I am able, Leslie, but I'm afraid this is not the time." He smiled, a little tentatively, but Leslie just couldn't find enough hope to smile back at him; and he let out another small sigh, getting them under way at last.

Lawrence met them on the patio at the greensward. "Miss Mars is over there," he said to Roarke, gesturing to the middle where a radiant Julie Mars stood beside a white-haired man with a mustache who seemed a little proprietary.

"Ah, thank you, Lawrence, I see her," said Roarke and began to move away.

Lawrence cleared his throat. "Sir…if I may…speak off the record?"

Both Leslie and Roarke turned to stare at him, and Roarke gave assent, at which the butler continued: "Miss Mars is a wonderfully charming lady—beautiful, talented, of course—and obviously she has exquisite taste."

"Lawrence," Roarke began, with a fleeting glance at Leslie. The expression on his face made her wonder: _Is he actually_ nervous? _Impossible!_

But Lawrence had already taken the plunge. "I think she'd make a smashing permanent resident of the island, sir…if you know what I mean."

"I know precisely what you mean," Roarke said, and something in his voice killed the burgeoning anger Leslie had started to feel toward Lawrence. "But, 'off the record', it's something that can never be." And with that, he walked away toward Julie and the white-haired man with her, leaving Lawrence staring openmouthed after him and Leslie with more questions than ever.

She turned to Lawrence, that sense of outrage having survived after all. "What on earth did you say that for?" she demanded.

Lawrence's startled gaze fastened on her. "I don't understand, miss."

"What makes you think there's anything between Mr. Roarke and Julie Mars?"

Lawrence smiled, his gaze drifting back in Roarke's direction. "Surely you can see it, miss. And he's always been alone, hasn't he?"

"No, he hasn't," she snapped, wondering in some part of her churning brain where this loyalty to Helena had come from, almost as if Helena had been her mother rather than her guardian's wife. "Not that _you'd_ understand." She turned away from him, wishing she could just leave, but lacking the courage.

"Then maybe you should tell me, miss," suggested Lawrence pointedly.

But she was no longer willing to pursue the issue, except with Roarke. "Never mind," she said curtly and, for lack of anywhere else to go, moved reluctant feet in Roarke's wake.

"Are you tempting my favorite lady, Mr. Rome?" she heard him ask as she came within earshot. Jolted, she stopped short and gaped openly.

The white-haired man laughed. "Nothing you wouldn't approve of, Mr. Roarke."

Roarke laughed too. "I'm sure of that. Uh…" He took Julie's arm, still addressing the other man. "Would you excuse us?"

"Of course." He took Julie's hand in his and patted it. "Think about it, Julie. Let me know if you'll consider it."

When he left and Roarke and Julie started in Leslie's general direction, she ducked behind a few other people nearby, watching them closely till they had passed, and then falling in behind them by some six or eight feet. "You heard what he said?" Julie exclaimed in excitement.

"Yes, Julie," Roarke assured her. "I heard what he said. But he doesn't know what we know—and you can't tell him, or your fantasy will end at that very moment."

"No," Julie breathed in horror, staring at him, while Leslie peered at them standing beside the stone railing, away from others. "Why can't you make my cure permanent?"

"Please don't ask me that," Roarke said softly, shaking his head, the shadows back across his face.

"Listen to me!" Julie insisted low. "You chose to stay on this island once, rather than to live a life with me somewhere else—even though you told me that you loved me!"

"I did love you," said Roarke. "I do love you."

"Well, then why?" Julie demanded.

Roarke half turned away from her and settled on the railing, his troubled gaze going unfocused toward the sky. "Julie, I can't leave. I don't exist anywhere else but on Fantasy Island." Julie began to react, while Leslie found herself straining to hear through the abrupt roar and thunder of her blood flow and heartbeat in her ears. "Not in the way you know me." Completely befuddled, Julie stared at him, and he shook his head a little. "Don't try to understand it. Just believe that it is beyond even my powers."

"But those powers—those powers to make fantasies come true—" she began.

"They are for other people," Roarke broke in. "Not for myself." He arose again to face her fully, his gaze intense. "The very fact of our love makes what you ask impossible."

"I don't believe that," Julie retorted evenly. "You could find a way, but you won't. You sent me away before, with a leg that wouldn't get well and a heart that wouldn't heal—and now you'll do it again, for the same selfish reasons…whatever they are." She turned her back on him and left him standing there.

Leslie watched him turn to the railing and stare across the manicured lawn through the trees, his head falling back a little. Even as she debated revealing herself, her feet propelled her forward till she was standing beside him. He started slightly, then gave her such a wan smile that tears stung the backs of her eyes. "Hello, Leslie."

"I…um, I overheard what you said to Ms. Mars," Leslie ventured, and when he didn't react, she took a little courage. "Mr. Roarke…is that real? You don't exist anywhere but here? What on earth does that mean? Is that why we could never accept the invitations we were always getting from guests, to visit them in their hometowns and eat at their restaurants and attend their weddings and all that?"

Roarke nodded faintly; his voice was equally weak. "Yes, that's why."

"I don't get it," she said slowly. "You don't exist anywhere but here…" The sentence repeated itself endlessly in her brain, like a skipping record. "I don't get it. So if you left the island, then you'd what, just…disappear or something?"

Roarke looked away again, past her head and over the lawn. "It was…one of the conditions laid out for me when I started this business. I could never again leave this island."

Leslie had to think about that. "Okay…but how could you just…disappear?"

Roarke seemed to catch himself then, gathering her in close and hugging her. To her shock, he was trembling, just perceptibly. "I'm sorry, my daughter, this isn't the time or place for this discussion—but I promise you, we will talk more about it later, and I'll try to answer as many of your questions as I can. All right?"

"Okay," she agreed immediately and returned his embrace, holding on tightly. "I've been a brat all day. I'm really sorry, Mr. Roarke. I just didn't know."

"I know, child, I know," he said softly and smoothed her long hair. "It's all right." He released her. "Now, for something a little happier—tell me, would you like to wear this dress to the VIP reception tonight?"

"Another one?" she asked, accepting the change of mood and hoping she was covering up her own boiling emotions. "I take it this one's for other people."

Roarke nodded, grinning. "This one is for those involved with the film festival; the one this evening is the reception Mrs. Darnell will be attending with Mr. Baldwin. It's a bit more formal, but the dress you're wearing now will suit you just fine."

"Then I guess I'll keep it on," she agreed thoughtfully. "Funny, even the shoes aren't all that uncomfortable. That surprised me—they have heels."

He chuckled and started away from the railing, sliding an arm around her waist. "Why don't we find Lawrence and see to it that some routine rounds are made before we make our appearance at the reception this evening."


	24. Chapter 24

§ § § - November 12, 1983

Leslie was standing beside Roarke at the terrace lounge with its decorative walls of ancient volcanic rock, both watching as men in tuxedos and women in elegant gowns moved around the room talking quietly. Lawrence had been slowly circling the area bearing a tray of wine glasses; he now approached them and offered it to Roarke, who took one with a word of thanks. Lawrence smiled and offered, "If I may say so, sir, your reception for the VIP guests is a splendid idea."

"Thank you, Lawrence," Roarke said, a bit sternly, "but I remind you that all Fantasy Island guests are 'VIPs', as you call them."

"Of course, sir," Lawrence said, looking a bit chastened. He turned away as if to go on about his duties, but then stopped after only one step. "Oh dear…"

"A problem, Lawrence?" inquired Roarke. He and Leslie both followed the butler's gaze and spied two figures entering the room, a man in a subdued suit and tie and a somewhat dowdy young blonde in a plain black dress with a wide white collar.

"Two, sir," Lawrence said direly, "and more of a disaster. They're old friends of mine… and Baldwin's. But it's not just them I'm worried about, it's their employers."

Roarke read Lawrence's expression. "Oh, I see! All of them, I gather, know Mrs. Darnell and Baldwin?" Lawrence nodded. "Oh…"

Then they saw two more arrivals emerge from the entrance; Leslie recognized them as the two women she'd overheard talking behind Leslie Darnell's back that afternoon. Said Lawrence in an even more dire tone, "Ah…enter the witches, right on cue."

"Rachel and Audrey?" Leslie said.

Lawrence, too alarmed to ask how she knew this, simply nodded. "Mesdames Andrews and Wilkins. They both enjoy a reputation for malicious gossip that is exceeded only by the wealth of their respective husbands."

"Well," said Roarke, "as the one in charge of this fantasy, Lawrence, I suggest you keep a very close eye on this situation. And I wish you luck." Leslie thought she saw just the merest glimmer of amusement in his dark eyes as he set the half-emptied wine glass back onto Lawrence's tray and moved off to another part of the room. He paused long enough to take in Lawrence's reaction—the butler merely stood staring in horror at Audrey and Rachel for a few seconds—then grinned and gestured to Leslie to come along with him.

"You mean you don't want to stick around and see how he handles it?" Leslie asked when she caught up with him.

Roarke grinned. "I had planned to discreetly supervise, yes," he said low. "After all, it's the first time Lawrence has been allowed to grant a fantasy, at whatever remove, and I wish merely to be sure he has everything under control."

They stationed themselves carefully out of sight between a huge tiki and an oversized potted fern, where they were reasonably well hidden but could still easily see the main room. They were just in time, for Rachel Andrews and Audrey Wilkins were just now peering at Marshall Baldwin and Leslie Darnell dancing together and talking earnestly to each other. At right angles to Roarke's and Leslie's hiding place, they saw Lawrence duck behind the bar and pluck a wine glass off a shelf to spy on the goings-on. Leslie snickered, and Roarke grinned at her.

"Leslie," said Rachel deliberately, and both Mrs. Darnell and Baldwin stopped dancing to stare. "How nice."

Audrey strolled forward and went so far as to squeeze Baldwin's arm; he looked very uncomfortable. "Aren't you going to introduce us to this gorgeous man?" she trilled, then drew back and let her mouth drop wide open as if in shock. "Baldwin! It's you!"

"Leslie, shall we bother explaining?" Baldwin inquired.

Before Mrs. Darnell could respond, Rachel seized on it. _"Leslie?"_ she repeated, her index finger wagging back and forth between them, as if stunned by their informality.

Deliberately Mrs. Darnell announced, "Marshall, we don't have anything to explain."

"Oh, of course not, dear," Rachel said, moving over to stand beside Mrs. Darnell and place a hand on her shoulder as if in confidence. "We _are_ your friends."

"Some friends!" Leslie whispered disgustedly, and felt more than heard Roarke's soft, silent chuckle from beside her.

"Hey…we don't blame you a bit," they heard Rachel say suggestively, her eyes going to Audrey, who promptly took up the ball.

"No, of course not," she said. "This island is the perfect setting for an indiscretion." If anything, Leslie thought, she was worse than Rachel, looking a little condemning.

Baldwin had clearly had enough. "Excuse me, 'mesdames'…but the only people being indiscreet here are the two of you." Before either Audrey or Rachel could recover from what looked to Leslie like exaggerated shock, he added, "Or, to put it more bluntly, go to hell!"

Leslie gasped and crammed her hands up against her mouth to hold back a burst of pure delight; she shot Roarke a look and saw him grinning outright. "Good for Baldwin!"

"Perhaps not so good for Lawrence," Roarke remarked and gestured with a nod; she turned back in time to see a huge-eyed Lawrence, still behind the bar, slap a passing waiter on the shoulder and hold out his hand expectantly, without taking his eyes off the departing Baldwin and Mrs. Darnell. The waiter handed him the glass he was carrying, and Lawrence raised it and threw back its contents all in one desperate gulp.

"Oops," murmured Leslie, who really wanted to laugh out loud, but didn't dare.

Roarke chuckled again and put a hand on her shoulder. "Perhaps we'd better go now, after all. If you would do me a great favor and monitor the telephone at home, I promise that you and I will definitely talk—if not tonight, then certainly tomorrow."

Reminded, she twisted her head over her shoulder to peer up at him; that troubled look was back in his eyes. "Okay," she agreed without fuss, and returned his smile before watching him depart.

Roarke ambled around his island for some twenty minutes before finally spying Julie near a small gazebo with an adjacent dance floor. A few dancing couples were just vanishing through the trees, leaving the floor deserted; Julie sat on a wrought-iron bench with a red-and-white cushion, looking pensive and grasping her knee. He approached her and leaned over the back of the bench. "I've been looking for you." Then he fully absorbed her mien and stared in concern at her. "What is it, Julie?"

"I was dancing, and an old man with a cane was watching me…and I remembered that I was crippled too." Her eyes seemed accusative somehow.

Roarke rounded the bench and sat down beside her. "Listen to me," he said, slowly, carefully. "There may be a way to grant you what you want."

Hope crept into her face. "To be healed?"

"Yes," Roarke murmured, staring at his shoes, making some very hard and fast decisions. "If I find a way, it will mean a…a sacrifice. Nothing worthwhile is without a price."

"What sacrifice wouldn't be worth it?" Julie cried joyfully.

"It means that much to you?" Roarke asked.

Intensely Julie told him, "It means everything to me." She leaned forward and softly kissed him. "I love you."

"And I love you too, Julie…more than you know." He smiled softly at her, seeing superimposed on her image all those lovely memories they'd shared, before adding, "Until later," and kissing her cheek. He left her sitting there and walked away, without looking back, his mind on one thing only.

He really didn't know how long he'd been walking, thinking till his surroundings ceased to exist for him; but when a voice called his name, piercing his solitude, he stopped and waited till a rather winded Lawrence had caught up with him. "Sir…Ms. Mars said you had come this way."

"Is there a problem?" Roarke asked, thinking perhaps Leslie had sent him.

But Lawrence replied, "Only that you didn't say where you were going or when you'd return, and the hour is getting late, sir."

Roarke smiled slightly and shook his head once or twice. "There's nothing you can do, Lawrence," he said gently.

"A burden shared is a burden lifted, sir," Lawrence persisted.

"If the burden gets too heavy, I'll remember," Roarke promised quietly. "Thank you."

Lawrence released a sigh, but took it for the dismissal it was. Wishing Roarke good night, he returned the way he had come; Roarke started away again in the opposite direction and continued walking, now with purpose to his step.

After something like half an hour of further walking, he emerged into a wide-open glade, surrounded by what looked like the ruins of long-forgotten Maori temples overgrown with wild tropical plants and flowers of all sorts. The moon, just short of half full, cast a faint silvery sheen on everything; but when Roarke stopped in the middle of the glade, the light was overcome by what appeared to be a spotlight from some unknown source, gleaming down on him as he stood with his face tilted skyward.

Then he spoke, his voice raised and deliberate. "To this place, I once brought the woman that I loved. Now, I seek the answer that I already know." As if in response, the wind sprang up from nowhere and began to lash the surrounding vegetation. "I would grant her what she wants, at the cost which must be paid."

Lightning split the sky, perhaps in acknowledgment, and the very air seemed to explode as thunder rattled the ground under his feet. Yet he stood straight and still, as if he had seen or heard nothing. He waited till the forked bolts of lightning flickered and faded, till the last of the thunder had echoed in whispers from the volcanic crags in the island's innermost interior, and then he said very softly: "I know what must be done."

It was as though whatever forces he had spoken to had been waiting for this, for the wind died abruptly, leaving a stillness barely illuminated by the fat crescent moon. Slowly Roarke started away, back the way he had come, pausing one last time to gaze around and let the memory scroll through his mind before putting it firmly away and heading home.

§ § § - November 13, 1983

Leslie had been asleep by the time he'd at last reached the main house, but she caught him after breakfast the next morning. "Was there some sort of offshore storm last night?" she wanted to know. "I heard a lot of distant thunder."

"Did you indeed?" inquired Roarke, looking amused. "In that case, I'm surprised you were asleep when I returned."

She made a face. "You took so long getting back, I fell asleep waiting. Well, I guess the storm went somewhere else. It's really nice this morning."

Roarke glanced across the lane, where the trees overhanging the house dappled the sunlight sparkling off the water in the fountain, and smiled. "So it is. I appreciate your taking care of things for me here last night. Apparently it was very quiet."

"Yup, no problems at all," she said. She scooped up the last of her oatmeal and swiped a napkin across her mouth, then got up and popped a kiss on his cheek. "The only call I got was from the post office—they said there's some stuff there waiting for us and I told them I'd come pick it up this morning. So I'm off to do that."

"Thank you, Leslie," Roarke said, smiling up at her; it lingered while he watched her trot across the porch and down to a waiting jeep—she refused to touch the wheel in the new brown coupes, he'd noticed—and drove away. Only then did the smile collapse; he took a look at his gold pocket watch, then arose and left the table, on his way to Julie Mars' bungalow.

He found her executing several convoluted ballet moves at the portable barre he'd had installed in her bungalow on Friday; she looked radiant and energetic when he told her he had been able to find the way he'd been looking for. "Then it's really true?" she cried, stopping to gape at him with her face alight. "I won't be crippled again? I can't believe it! My dreams are coming true—and all because of you!" With a delighted laugh, she threw her arms around him. He slowly wrapped his around her, taking some joy in her happiness, yet unable to shake off a relentless melancholy.

"I'm so happy I could burst," Julie bubbled, releasing him. "It's going to be just like it was again." She turned back to the barre and resumed her ballet moves.

"Julie," Roarke warned gently, "nothing can ever be exactly like it was before."

But she wouldn't be dissuaded. "Oh yes it can. Because I'm back on my feet, and best of all, I've got my man." She flashed him a huge grin; he smiled back, but it faltered, earning him a lightly reproachful look from her. "Don't you give me that look. I'm whole again, and this time I'm not taking no for an answer." So saying, she went back to him, slid her arms around him and kissed him—this time with clear intent. Helplessly, Roarke succumbed, but even while he drank in her happiness and took fierce joy in it, he could not resist the overwhelming sorrow that threatened to swamp him.

Leslie, in the meantime, had dropped off a filled postal bucket and four or five packages at the main house, then gone off to make a few rounds for Roarke; somehow she was feeling surprisingly good. It was as if she had slept away yesterday's worries and upset. Near the pool, she spied Baldwin and Mrs. Darnell, sitting at a table together and having colorful non-alcoholic drinks, talking low and looking very happy. She paused by their table and remarked, "It looks like you two are having a wonderful weekend."

They turned to her with broad smiles. "Leslie! So we are," Mrs. Darnell said brightly, indicating one of the extra chairs with one hand. Leslie settled into it, grinning back. "It's good to see you. Your father does wonders on this island of his."

"He certainly does," Leslie agreed, taking in their happiness. "I'm so glad for both of you. I think you deserve to be happy together. And wow, Mr. Baldwin, I really liked the way you handled those, uh, _friends_ of Mrs. Darnell's last night."

Baldwin and Mrs. Darnell exchanged vaguely sheepish glances before both breaking into laughter. "I might have come on a bit strong…" Baldwin began.

"You told it like it is," Leslie said firmly. "And I say, good for you. If they were really your friends, Mrs. Darnell, they'd be happy for you too."

"They would, wouldn't they?" Mrs. Darnell agreed. "Wise words, Leslie, and I thank you for them. And also for your hospitality—thanks for looking in on us."

Leslie grinned. "I'm happy to. Enjoy your morning." She got up and strolled away on their goodbyes, intending to find out from the bartender what he had mixed up for Baldwin and Mrs. Darnell; she was getting a bit thirsty and thinking of ordering one for herself.

Then she heard a voice. "Baldwin!" She turned around and saw a man and a woman standing beside the table she had just departed. It took her a moment to recognize the two people in serving uniforms who had appeared at the terrace lounge at the previous evening's reception. They were now both dressed casually, but the man, an older fellow with a beard and graying hair, seemed very ill at ease, while the woman, clearly a good bit younger, appeared to be a bit drunk, even at this hour. In fact, she was toting a glass of wine along with her, sipping frequently from it.

"Oh," the woman said as she peered hard at the seated pair, "excuse me, Mrs. Darnell." She sounded almost as stickily polite and surprised as Rachel Andrews and Audrey Wilkins had at the reception.

Baldwin spoke with some reluctance. "Uh, Leslie, this is, uh, Carol and McShane. They, uh, they work for Mrs. Andrews and Mrs. Wilkins." His voice trailed into disenchantment and he looked away.

"How do you do," the two servants said in tandem.

"Oh, please," Mrs. Darnell invited, "won't you join us?"

"Oh, uh, thank you, but…I don't think that's wise," said McShane, sounding awkward. "It wouldn't look right if our employers came along." He had the same clipped British accent as Lawrence, and Leslie wondered how long they'd known each other.

"You know," Carol said then, "the _hired help_ sitting with…" Her voice trailed away when Baldwin threw her a sharp look.

"As a matter of fact, we were just leaving," Baldwin said coldly and turned to Mrs. Darnell. "Leslie."

Mrs. Darnell arose and departed the table, but Carol detained Baldwin with a hand on his arm. "So nice to see you moving up in the world," she simpered.

"Leslie," Baldwin called, shaking off Carol's arm and hurrying after Mrs. Darnell, who had paused; they stood quietly, speaking in low tones, but it was clear to Leslie that something was suddenly wrong in their world.

Then Baldwin's voice carried clearly to her. "You see? We can't stop them, my friends or yours. They'll never let us be…just us."

"I don't give a damn about our friends!" Mrs. Darnell protested.

Baldwin just shook his head. "Sooner or later, you will." With that, he left her.

Disgusted all over again, Leslie glared after McShane and Carol, shaking her head to herself. Evidently it didn't take wealth to be as pompous and gossipy as Rachel and Audrey. What was _wrong_ with people? She released a sharp sigh and went to the bar, learning that Baldwin's drink had been a combination of pineapple and mango juice and asking for one for herself. She hung around the pool area till she had finished as much as she wanted, then handed the glass back and made her way in the general direction of the main house.

Midway along, she changed her mind and headed for the open-air dining room, near which was a small sailing lagoon already dotted with several boats sporting sails in all colors of the rainbow. There she saw Lawrence, carrying a clipboard and making marks on the paper attached to it; she had nearly caught up with him when he passed Julie Mars, at a table by herself. "Why Lawrence, you're the picture of industry," she greeted him.

Surprised, Lawrence paused and looked at her. "Oh, very kind, I'm sure, Miss Julie," he said, in a rush for some reason. "But I'm afraid I've botched things up. Inadvertently I've seated the Russian representative at today's festival screening next to the one from China."

"I'm sure they'll both survive," Julie said, amused.

"Yes," retorted Lawrence, "but will I?" He settled down beside her momentarily, while Leslie wondered why it was such a disaster that the Russian and Chinese men should be sitting beside each other. "Mr. Roarke specifically directed me to prevent such a confrontation."

Julie laughed. "I'll ask him to let you off this time."

"Thank you," Lawrence said, "but as they say, there are no free rides. One must always pay the piper, you know."

"What does that mean, exactly?" Julie wondered idly.

Lawrence smiled. "It's only an old saying, Miss Julie. Something about, 'for every step the reveler takes, for every joyous skip he makes, the piper must be paid.' Ah well." He looked at his clipboard and made another check mark on it, then stood. "Perhaps I've discovered a new approach to diplomacy. Excuse me." He started away, then spotted Leslie lingering a few feet away. "You look lost, miss."

"Oh, well…" Leslie shrugged. "I guess I'm just trying to help Mr. Roarke by keeping on top of things. What's the problem between the Russian and Chinese guys? Aren't they on speaking terms or something?"

Lawrence looked disapproving. "It's plain that you don't keep up with world affairs, miss. Russia and China broke off diplomatic relations years ago." He paused and considered his own words. "Well, perhaps you wouldn't have known. You weren't yet born when it happened. But still…" The stern look came back. "You're quite old enough to be aware of such things by now, particularly in a business that serves an international clientele as Mr. Roarke's does. I suggest you do a little reading this afternoon." Before she could react, he brightened. "I have just the thing for you. I take the _London Times_ here, and I swear by it. It keeps me thoroughly informed of all the things I need to know. Suppose you come along with me and I'll give you this morning's copy?"

Leslie decided it couldn't hurt and shrugged her shoulders. "Okay. In fact, it might be a good time to tell you what I saw over at the pool." This resulted in her following Lawrence to the cottage Roarke had allotted him as his residence, explaining the scene at the pool between Baldwin, Mrs. Darnell, and the servants; and then waiting for fifteen minutes while he searched in vain for his paper, muttering nervously in rapid turns about Mrs. Darnell's fantasy and his missing _London Times_. Finally he decided he must have left it on the veranda at the main house after breakfast, and she dutifully trailed him back there, only to find that the breakfast table had long since been cleared and there was no paper in sight. In the study, Lawrence began poking around, lifting chair cushions, checking bookshelves, even overturning the cups on the tea table. She stood there and looked on, amused but trying not to let it show; and that was how Roarke found them, coming in from the rear terrace.

His footsteps made Lawrence straighten abruptly up. "Oh, there you are, sir," he said.

"Yes, Lawrence," Roarke agreed, looking as if he were not quite focused on the moment. He took his usual chair behind the desk, then seemed to come back to the here-and-now, and watched Lawrence stand in the middle of the room for several seconds before inquiring, "Why do I have this strange feeling that you're about to unburden your mind?"

Lawrence looked impressed. "Very discerning, sir," he said. "I'm afraid another serpent has entered the Garden of Eden along with Baldwin and Mrs. Darnell." He indicated Leslie. "Miss Leslie told me about it just now."

"Oh? What happened?" Roarke asked.

"Remember those two servants we all saw at the reception last night? Mr. Baldwin and Mrs. Darnell were at the pool, having drinks together, and then those two wandered in and made a big deal out of it. Well, the guy—"

"McShane," Lawrence provided quickly.

"—was a little more, uh, discreet about it, I guess, than the girl—"

"Carol," Lawrence said.

Leslie shot him a look. "Okay, Carol. But I think she'd been drinking already; she sounded a little tipsy and she was carrying a glass of wine around. She was just as bad as those two so-called friends of Mrs. Darnell's. And I think that really discouraged Mr. Baldwin. He said something about how their friends could never just let them be themselves, and when Mrs. Darnell said she didn't care, he said she would, and walked away."

"I see," Roarke mused and looked thoughtfully at his butler. "Just this morning, you said all was well."

"Baldwin is a very stubborn man," Lawrence said. "He—" Just then the door popped open to admit Leslie Darnell; they all looked around at her in surprise. She was upset.

"Mr. Roarke," she began.

"Right on cue, madam," said Lawrence, sounding relieved.

"Excuse me for barging in like this," Mrs. Darnell said, closing the door behind her and entering the room fully, "but I really must speak to you…"

"Certainly, Mrs. Darnell. Please, sit down," Roarke said, after casting Lawrence one quick look and ascertaining that he appeared to be utterly out of his element. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, I…it's Marshall. He insists we stop the fantasy, Lawrence! I…" She let the sentence dangle, looking helpless, while Roarke, Lawrence and Leslie looked at one another. It gave her a chance to gather herself. "Mr. Roarke, when it's just the two of us, it's as I knew it would be—wonderful. But…he's convinced that I'm being hurt by other people's bad manners…" Behind her the door opened again, and she cut herself off and whipped around in her chair while all eyes beheld Marshall Baldwin entering the room.

"Ah, Mr. Baldwin," Roarke said. "Let me guess…you are here to talk about Mrs. Darnell." His smile carried just a touch of amusement.

"Yes, I am," Baldwin said and stepped into the room, pausing beside Mrs. Darnell's chair. "What're you doing here?"

"She came to talk to Mr. Roarke about you," Lawrence informed him.

Baldwin blinked at him, then turned to Mrs. Darnell. "I'm sorry about this whole mess, Leslie," he said helplessly.

"Darling, it's not your fault!" Mrs. Darnell insisted firmly.

"Precisely," Roarke put in before Baldwin could say anything. "So perhaps you two would like to talk things over. Why don't you use my lanai, hm?" He made a gesture out the French shutters. Baldwin and Mrs. Darnell murmured thanks and made their way out, hesitating at the entrance for a last look back before moving along.

"Well, Lawrence, I have other things to attend to," Roarke remarked, heading for the doors in the inner foyer. "But, as you often say…'carry on'." He neatly overlaid his familiar Latin accent with a British inflection before smiling broadly at the astonished Lawrence, winking at Leslie and departing.

Leslie grinned and slipped behind Roarke's desk to start going through the bucket of mail she had left there earlier; Lawrence, left at loose ends, might have started searching for his newspaper again, except that right then Carol and McShane charged through the doors and into the room. Startled, Lawrence stepped back involuntarily.

"Lawrence, this thing between Baldwin and Mrs. Darnell has gone on long enough," announced Carol, sounding decidedly more drunk than she had when Leslie had seen her at the pool, but remarkably steady on her feet all the same. "You've got to do something."

Lawrence cleared his throat. "I'm afraid it's none of my affair—and certainly none of yours," he added in a scolding tone.

"It is _so_ our affair," McShane contradicted. "Once people forget their place, the whole world begins to fall apart! Now look, nobody cares what they do…as long as they don't do it in public."

His voice had been loud enough that it had attracted attention from outside; a very angry Baldwin stood framed in the French shutters, with a fluttering Mrs. Darnell hovering behind him. "McShane," he said in a very low, ominous tone, _"out!"_ He began to advance on McShane, whose face grew alarmed; he started backing off, till finally he fled the way he'd come in, with Carol on his heels. Baldwin paused in the middle of the room, meeting Leslie's gaze, then Lawrence's, then Mrs. Darnell's. "I'm sorry," he said at last. "For everything…and everybody." And he stalked back out, with Mrs. Darnell rushing after him.

Lawrence gaped after them, face horrified. Feeling sorry for him, Leslie offered, "Well, you did the best you could, Lawrence."

"Then tell me, miss, why do I feel so incompetent?" Lawrence asked sadly, and wandered out in Baldwin's wake, looking dejected. Leslie watched him go, wondering what he was going to do now; then she glanced at the foyer doors and decided it might be a good time to stay where she was and sort the mail.


	25. Chapter 25

§ § § - November 13, 1983

Outside, having just left Lawrence to deal with "his" fantasy, Roarke had met up with Julie Mars on the porch, on her way up to come and see him. They greeted each other and strolled back down the steps; at the end of the walk they were hailed by Edmond Rome, the white-haired man who'd been speaking with Julie at the previous afternoon's cocktail party; he was a Broadway producer and, as Julie had just admitted to Roarke, he'd been gently badgering her all weekend to resume her career. Sure enough, once he had greeted them, he said quizzically to Roarke, "I'm sure Julie's told you she's going to do my Broadway show."

"She mentioned it, yes," Roarke said, casting Julie a look.

"I haven't been able to talk about anything else," Julie admitted through a laugh.

"With your permission, Mr. Roarke," Rome said, "I'd love to put out the word: _Julie Mars Returns!"_

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Roarke cordially. "The announcement will have to wait until tonight, after Julie dances."

Bewildered, she stared at him. "But darling, why? You said…" She turned back toward Rome as she spoke, and her voice died as her gaze fastened on something else. Roarke followed it; in the lane, making their way slowly along, were an elderly couple enjoying the sun. He was walking with a cane, and Julie couldn't get her gaze away from it. The couple spied them looking on, and the man tipped his hat at her as they both smiled.

Oblivious, Rome said thoughtfully, "You know something, Mr. Roarke, I think you're right. It'll be a much more exciting announcement after everyone has seen Julie dance again. You're quite a showman." He patted Roarke's shoulder. "We'll talk later, Julie." He popped a kiss on her cheek and left them there gazing after the old couple.

Roarke turned her to face him, about to question her as to his suspicions; but she spoke before he could. "That man—the one with the cane. I can't go back to that—the self-pity, the absolute despair of knowing I can never dance again. I can't."

Roarke drew her into his embrace. "Oh, Julie, Julie…"

Unexpectedly he heard her murmur, "The sacrifice." She drew back and stared hard at him. "What is it?" Roarke stared back, silent, pained, and she pressed him. "You told me there would be a price to pay. What is it?"

Despite himself, Roarke smiled at her intensity, and remembered, "You once questioned my love for you, Julie. When this sacrifice is met, there will be no need to question it ever again." He gently hugged her once more; then she, excited and relieved, smiled brightly at him and pulled out of his arms to pick a flower and tuck it into his lapel.

"For luck," she said. "Wear it tonight when I dance. Please."

"For good luck," he echoed softly, sadly. "Of course."

"I have a million things to do," she said and reached up to kiss his cheek. "I'll see you tonight, my love." She turned and rushed away, leaving him behind, racked with agony all over again.

He had a difficult time eating lunch, which escaped Lawrence's notice—preoccupied as he was with the Darnell fantasy—but not Leslie's. She could see the persistent sadness in his dark eyes and kept wondering about it, remembering his promise that they'd talk and trying to decide when the best time would be to bring up the subject. However, for the moment she refrained, suspecting that even with her scant knowledge, she still knew more than Lawrence did, and that Roarke didn't want to clue him in.

He seemed more and more worried as the afternoon wore on, and eventually even Lawrence noticed his employer's mien. However, he attributed it to the apparent deterioration of the Darnell fantasy, which had Lawrence himself very apprehensive, and decided that the remedy was a drink. "Here you are, sir," he said, handing Roarke a glass of white wine. "This will steady your nerves."

Roarke met Leslie's surprised gaze with a wry glance of his own before turning his attention on Lawrence and speaking as if the Darnell fantasy had been on his mind all along. "Thank you." He took a sip, then regarded the fidgeting butler. "By the way, Lawrence…the next time you want to arrange a fantasy for one of your friends, may I suggest you consider something a little less…"

He was still sitting there with one hand rotating in the air, searching for the word he wanted, when the door flew open and in marched Rachel Andrews and Audrey Wilkins. At sight of them, Leslie promptly shot to her feet from her own chair and watched them stalk inside, both looking quite haughty and self-righteous. Roarke arose too while Rachel said imperiously, "Mr. Roarke, we want to talk to you."

"Ah, ladies, I can see you have a problem," Roarke said, putting the wine glass on his desk and coming out from behind it, slipping around Leslie as he did so. "Please have a seat, won't you?" But Rachel refused with a quick series of "no"s.

"It's about a very delicate subject," Audrey informed him.

Roarke paused behind one of the club chairs and gave them his full attention, as Rachel added direly, "It's about Leslie Darnell and her butler."

"Yes?" Roarke prompted.

Audrey opened her mouth, then peered at Lawrence, and then over her shoulder at Leslie. "Uh…maybe, uh, they should leave?"

To Leslie's astonishment, Roarke smiled at her and said, "Oh no, no, I don't think so." That got a tiny, satisfied smile from Lawrence, who moved away from the desk so he could better regard the two women. Leslie remained where she was, but it felt almost as if Roarke had given her his permission to have her say—and she definitely wanted her say!

"Well, then, I'll just say it," Audrey said, sniffing. "Leslie and her butler are having a blatant affair, and you must put an end to it." Rachel nodded vigorous agreement.

"Must I?" Roarke inquired, his professional warmth beginning to cool.

"Yes," Rachel announced, while now Audrey bobbed her head. "If you care about the reputation of your precious Fantasy Island."

"Is that a threat, Mrs. Andrews?" Roarke asked. He sounded vaguely surprised, but there was an ominous undertone in his voice nonetheless.

"Take it any way you like," Rachel invited.

"I see," said Roarke, releasing the chair back and pacing the room as if in deep thought. "Would it interest you to know that all my guests—_all_ of my guests…" He speared them with a look and a false smile as he said the italicized word— "are carefully screened before arriving on, uh, 'my precious Fantasy Island'?" He directed this last at Rachel, who merely blinked.

"This has nothing to do with us," Audrey said haughtily. "We're talking about Leslie Darnell and her disgusting affair."

"Oh, I quite understand," Roarke assured them, then moved back in their direction, his eyes chilly. "But what you may not understand is that when someone declares 'war', both sides are forced to use all the weapons they're able to…shall we say, uh, discover?"

The last word made Audrey and Rachel look at each other with the first signs of nervousness. Roarke, taking advantage, went on, "I seem to recall something about you and a certain gentleman in…Chicago, was it, not too long ago? Shame on you." Rachel's mouth dropped wide open and her gaze slid to Lawrence, as if afraid he'd repeat this, while Audrey snickered. But her turn was coming. "And I believe you, Mrs. Wilkins, have developed a very _warm_ relationship with your dance instructor."

Leslie ducked her head and put a few fingertips to her mouth, smiling broadly behind them. She had to admit she was a little disappointed at not being able to let off her own steam at those two busybodies, but she loved the way Roarke was pulling them down a few pegs. Across the room, Lawrence giggled aloud before recomposing himself.

Rachel drew in a deep breath. "Mr. Roarke…"

"Yes?" he inquired, all solicitous warmth again.

"I trust that everything that's been said here today will remain in your confidence?" Rachel inquired, slipping a hand into his.

"Of course," Roarke agreed silkily, even going so far as to kiss the back of her hand. Leslie saw the women's gazes shift to Lawrence again; he gave them a brilliant little smile and even wrinkled his nose, which made Leslie push her fingertips harder against her lips to keep back her mirth. Roarke said, "Goodbye, ladies."

The two women hurried out, Audrey with the audacity to have Roarke kiss her hand as well. Lawrence followed them up and closed the doors behind them with a decisive click, at which point Leslie began to laugh. Lawrence turned and said with great admiration, "Sir, you were utterly magnificent."

"Thank you, Lawrence," said Roarke, catching Leslie laughing in her chair and grinning at her as he returned to his own chair and lifted his wine glass. "Let's hope they won't be giving Baldwin any more trouble."

Lawrence smirked. "I don't see how they'd dare, sir."

"Not after that," Leslie agreed delightedly. "I really wanted to tell them off, but your way was a thousand times better than mine. That was fabulous!"

Roarke winked at her again. "That, my dear Leslie, is called 'subtlety'." This time Lawrence joined in the laughter.

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie wore the green dress again for that evening's show at the theater; she stood beside Roarke backstage, with Lawrence nearby holding a bouquet of roses, watching Julie Mars dancing with four young men clad in white. She turned in a flawless performance; and it was obvious she was in her element, judging from the huge smile that never once left her face. When Julie's fellow dancers bore her off the stage and into the wings, she jumped lightly down and flew straight into Roarke's arms. "You were magnificent, Julie," he said.

"Well, if I am, I'm your creation," Julie told him. Her joy tamped down a little as she asked him the question once more: "Oh, darling…what is the sacrifice?"

His smile died, but before he could speak, they all heard audience members, still applauding and cheering, call out Julie's name. He peered out onto the stage, and Julie turned to get a look of her own before beaming at him once again, thrilled at the raucous accolades. Roarke smiled and urged, "Dance, Julie. Dance for as long as you wish."

She returned to the stage; as soon as the spotlight caught her, the audience's cheering rose again and she received a standing ovation. Julie curtsied, then held out both hands to the wings. Roarke and Leslie watched the four young men run past onstage for another go at their routine, and Leslie watched, marveling again at the innate grace Julie displayed and wishing she had even a quarter of that in her own klutzy movements. She turned to Roarke to make a comment to that effect, only to see his face filled with the sort of pain she hadn't witnessed in him since Helena had died.

Unaware that his startled daughter was staring at him with growing alarm, Roarke focused exclusively on Julie. As though to himself, he said, "This is the sacrifice, Julie. To make your cure permanent, I must renounce my love for you…and I must take away any memory of your having loved me in return." As Leslie gaped, motionless, he closed his eyes for a moment, lowered his head and stood stock-still as though concentrating. After some ten seconds, he relaxed a little and refocused on Julie, but the pain remained.

Leslie wanted to give some kind of comfort, but she wasn't sure how, or how it would be received. Anyway, something told her that just now, Roarke wouldn't welcome any kind of platitude, no matter how well meant. The empath in her felt tears rising once more, and she turned away from the sight of his face, unable to bear seeing him hurting so much.

The dance ended and the theater once again rang with applause and loud cheers and whistles. The supporting dancers left the stage to Julie, while Edmond Rome and Lawrence went out with their bouquets to hand her. As Lawrence passed by, he noticed Roarke's expression and hesitated slightly before going ahead to deliver his roses.

Edmond Rome turned to the audience and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please. I have an exciting announcement concerning Julie. I'm happy to tell you that Miss Julie Mars will be starring in my new Broadway show next season." As he spoke, Julie cast a look backstage at Roarke, one filled with what looked to Leslie like curiosity; Roarke nodded and smiled at her as though she were just another guest, and she nodded and smiled back. Then Rome completed his announcement, and Julie beamed joyously, curtsying once more, basking in the limelight she had longed for.

Roarke removed the flower Julie had stuck in his lapel that afternoon and twirled it back and forth between his thumb and forefinger, then said softly, "Goodbye, Julie." Leslie, no longer able to restrain herself, slipped her arm through his, and he looked at her as if in surprise that she was there, before smiling gratefully and ushering her along with him.

They'd taken only a few steps before he stopped; automatically she paused alongside him, wondering what had happened. Then she knew, when he reached out for the abandoned cane that hung forgotten on a peg near a group of stage props, lifted it for just a second or two, then replaced it and walked away. She cast a last glance back through the wings before hurrying after him.

Leslie let Roarke's silence hold sway for the drive back to the main house; she was thinking of his promise to her to explain everything, but in the mood he was in, she wasn't sure she should press him for details. She followed him into the study and hesitated for a moment or two in the middle of the floor, while he checked for messages; then she turned toward the stairs. "I guess I might as well get ready for bed," she murmured.

"Wait, Leslie, wait," Roarke said quietly. "I promised you an explanation, and you shall have it. That is, if you still want it."

Leslie, with one foot on the bottom step, turned back and smiled. "I do, but I didn't think you'd be ready to tell me now, considering what you just had to do."

"I did what was needed," Roarke said, and that sharp pain flashed across his face again before he composed himself. "If you like, you may change your clothes, and then come back down here. Lawrence will be returning home for the night, so we'll have privacy."

They also had cups of hot cocoa, thanks to Mariki; Leslie tucked her feet under her and cradled her mug in her hands. "So tell me about Julie Mars," she said.

"What would you like to know?" Roarke inquired.

He had expected she'd have to think before she asked, but her first question popped right out. "I want to know what she meant to you in relation to Helena. I know you loved Helena enough to marry her. It looks as if you loved Julie just as much, even if you can't marry _her_. And I guess you've known Julie longer than you knew Helena…so what gives? I think what I really want to know is, were you in love with both of them at the same time?"

She in turn was surprised when he nodded and said simply, "Yes, I was."

"You're kidding," she breathed, shocked through and through. At his nod, she began to slowly shake her head, unable to grasp the concept. "How can you possibly love two women with the same intensity, at the same time?"

"It's perfectly possible, Leslie, and what's more, it's not even uncommon," Roarke said with a note of regret. "Despite my feelings, I always knew I was never destined to have a full and happy relationship with either Helena or Julie. As you overheard me explain to Julie yesterday, the powers I possess are for other people only, not for myself."

"That's really why Helena died, then," Leslie said, suddenly feeling enlightened. "That was the reason she had the tumor and died—because you weren't allowed to—"

She stopped because Roarke was shaking his head. "That isn't quite the way it went, my child," he said, amused and sad at once. "It would be more accurate to say it's the other way around, in a sense. Because Helena had that inoperable tumor, I was allowed a few days of happiness with her—because it was her fantasy to be my wife. Helena's last few days on this earth were spent with her fantasy fulfilled. I, on the other hand, was forced to continue on without her, because my powers are not meant for me to use for my own benefit. Do you understand?"

Leslie nodded. "I get it," she said. "But that doesn't explain why you were in love with Helena and Julie simultaneously." She took a sip of her cocoa, then shook her head once as if tossing the idea aside to examine later. "Okay, let me ask you this, then. Which one did you know first?"

"I met Julie first," Roarke said. "It was a number of years before you were born—for that matter, even before Tattoo became my assistant. She had just had her first blockbuster success in the movies, and was here on a Valentine's Day junket with a film company, shooting scenes for her next film. Quite to my own surprise, I fell in love with her, and she with me; but Julie was destined for greater things, and I had no right to stand in her way."

"So you let her go, even though you were really in love with her," Leslie said.

"Exactly. She returned to the island periodically, but not often enough to give either of us any illusions that there could be a future between us, my own restrictions notwithstanding. By the late 60s, a few years after your mother came here and requested her fantasy, Julie had stopped coming altogether, even for vacations. Her career was very strong and she was obligated to nurture it. So I simply continued on as I always had, living alone."

Leslie nodded. "Okay. So what about Helena? I mean, I sort of know the background on your meeting her. She came the first time when Jamie was little, right?"

Roarke nodded and settled himself more comfortably in his own seat. "It so happens that I met her on a Valentine's Day as well. Jamie was not quite seven years old, and Helena's husband, Andrew Marsh, had died only four months before."

"Was she here because of a fantasy?" Leslie asked.

Roarke smiled. "Yes. She had been working extremely hard by her husband's side at his hospital school in Calcutta as it was, along with taking care of her son. Now that Dr. Marsh had passed away, she couldn't seem to find time for a rest, and wanted nothing more than a change in her life. She had decided to resume the career she had embarked upon before meeting and marrying Dr. Marsh—fashion designing—but she needed some help, so I assisted her by entering her in one of the most prestigious fashion shows in the world at that time. Her fantasy was granted when she won the competition and was promptly hired by a very well-known fashion house in New York City."

"Is that when you fell in love with her?" Leslie asked.

"Not then, no," Roarke said, "but I do recall being very attracted to her. I found myself thinking of her often. But, as with Julie, Helena had her career elsewhere." He frowned suddenly and shook his head to himself. "And then Julie returned…"

"I figured that out," Leslie said, a little excited. "It was just about the time I had to go to the courthouse in California to hear my mother's will being read."

Roarke caught her eye and grinned a little, despite his increasingly wry mood. "It was in fact about two weeks or so before then, at the time of my birthday that year. Julie had come back to the island to help me celebrate; it was a Monday and the guests had departed, while she was here on a short vacation. She had scheduled a performance for that evening, and I attended, of course. Afterward…" He paused, and Leslie tilted her head to one side, cocoa forgotten, increasingly riveted and sensing something big coming. "Afterward, I met her backstage, and for the first time we spoke seriously of our love and where we thought it would lead us. Julie told me that she was at last ready to settle down, and she wanted it to be with me—but at her home, rather than here. I told her then, as I told her this past weekend, that it was impossible for me to leave the island. Unfortunately, at that time she didn't understand; I couldn't explain it to her so that she was able to grasp it. She saw it only as my refusal to fully commit to her. And that's why she rushed out of the theater, took the car…and had the accident that injured her knee and ended her career till tonight."

Leslie nodded slowly. "Oh…I see," she murmured. "And she eventually left, because you kept telling her you couldn't leave, and she thought you meant you wouldn't."

"Precisely," said Roarke. He let his gaze lose focus for a moment or two before that wry smile crept back across his features. "Then, a mere two weeks later, Helena returned to the island with Jamie—and let it be known that she had fallen in love with me."

Leslie, shocked, didn't realize her mug was slipping till Roarke pointed it out, and she barely rescued it before it splashed its contents all over her robe. She set it on the tea table with a thunk. "Oh wow! So that was…exactly five years ago!"

"Quite nearly to the day," Roarke agreed, still wry. "The irony certainly didn't escape me. As much as I loved Julie, I was still as drawn to Helena as I had been the first time she came to the island, and since Julie had left here without resolving our differences, I am afraid I found solace in Helena. It didn't take me long to fall deeply in love with her."

"And then you married her a year later, when she came back after she'd found out she had that tumor and just wanted her last fantasy to be granted—to marry you," Leslie filled in, dazed and wondering. "How crazy is that? You met them both on a Valentine's Day, and then two weeks after one leaves here thinking you didn't want her, the other shows up and you fall for her. And then you get married a year later—well, a week shy, if I've got my dates right." She cast him a questioning look and he nodded confirmation. "And now here it is, four years after _that,_ and here's Julie, and you lost her love too. You lost Helena to death, and now you've lost Julie to her fantasy and her career."

"That seems to sum it up," Roarke said with a sigh, voice dry.

Leslie sat in silence for several minutes, trying to take it all in. Absently she drummed her fingertips on one knee while Roarke watched; then she frowned and shook her head. "I still don't see how you could love two women that much at the same time. And incidentally, that means you fell in with Helena on the rebound, didn't you?"

Much to his own surprise, Roarke burst out laughing. "It may look that way to you, my dear Leslie, but believe me—my falling for Helena was most assuredly not a rebound from Julie. As I told you, I had been attracted to Helena from the time I originally met her. Had that not been the case, I certainly wouldn't have fallen for her after Julie's departure five years ago, you can be assured of that."

Laughing, Leslie raised both hands. "Okay, okay, I'll take your word for it." They let a few beats pass; then she cleared her throat and leaned forward. "You said at the theater that you renounced your love for Julie—but even I know enough to realize that doesn't mean you don't still feel that love."

Roarke smiled a little. "You're growing up, Leslie," he said. "Yes, that's true. But forevermore, I must hide my feelings. In the end, Julie chose what really meant the most to her: her dancing, her career. You might say she, too, had two loves, except that she had to make a choice between them. And she chose the one with the greater hold on her heart."

"How did you know she loved dancing more than she loved you?" Leslie asked.

"When she decided she was ready to settle down, as I mentioned, she wanted me to come with her, to leave the island, and was upset when I couldn't do that. Had she loved me enough, she would have been as willing to retire and to remain on the island with me as she would have been to see me come to live with her. That wasn't the case. Dancing was always her first and greatest love; it was what made her happiest in her life. I could hardly refuse her that, and see her slowly become more and more unhappy. Besides, don't forget, there are restrictions on me."

"So there wasn't much you could do," Leslie said. "And you ended up relieving her of any choice in the first place, and just putting yourself through more pain. That doesn't sound very fair to me. I don't know how long you've been doing this, but I for one think you ought to get something back for giving so much of yourself all these years."

"Oh, but I do get something back," Roarke said, smiling at her. "I get the great satisfaction of seeing my guests leave here happy and satisfied. I love my work, I love this island, and I derive joy from providing my guests what they want, even if it's often in a roundabout way." He winked and she chuckled. "That's the return I get for everything I give. So, my child, never think I come away empty-handed. I may find some fantasies very difficult and very painful in the granting, but all in all, I am very fulfilled by what I do. So don't feel sorry for me. After all is said and done, I wouldn't change anything."

She nodded, absorbing his words; then her stubborn mind circled back around to the same conundrum once more. "Just tell me, though, did you stop loving Julie when you had that falling-out with her and fell in love with Helena?"

"Of course not. I still loved Julie," said Roarke. "Perhaps a little less, when I found that my love for Helena was so intense. But Julie wouldn't have me on the only terms it would have been possible, and even I cannot tell the future—at least, not always—" Here he grinned teasingly. "—so I set aside my feelings for her and gave my heart to Helena. And never, not once, have I regretted that."

"You'd think Helena would've sensed something," Leslie persisted.

"No, not at all. She never had reason to, and I never had reason to refer to Julie. And Julie has no knowledge of Helena. In the end, it didn't matter, don't you see? I was never meant to be with either of them, no matter how strong my love for them."

"Two at once," Leslie marveled, and Roarke rolled his eyes to himself, chuckling soundlessly. "I just can't understand that. I mean, you always hear there's one great love in a person's life, and I always thought yours was Helena."

"She was," Roarke said and smiled. "I may have loved Julie, but because Helena was willing to give more of herself to me, I loved her all the more for it, and wanted to give that much more of myself in return. If I loved Julie a little less, it was no less painful for the ending. Oh, it's possible, Leslie. Perhaps it will even happen to you one day."

Leslie snorted and pulled her feet out from under her, rising and indulging in a long stretch. "No way, not me. I'm going to fall in love once and only once, and if I lose him, that's it, once and for all. Well, good night, Mr. Roarke, and thanks for telling me." She rounded the tea table and kissed his cheek, and he watched her go, smiling knowingly.


	26. Chapter 26

§ § § - November 14, 1983

Roarke was quite his normal self the following morning when the rover came around with Leslie Darnell and Marshall Baldwin. Leslie watched in surprise as Baldwin rounded the car and handed Mrs. Darnell out; he was dressed once again in suit and tie, as if they had resumed their old roles of employer and butler. "Mr. Roarke, Leslie," Mrs. Darnell said; they nodded at her, and she glanced at Baldwin, who nodded impersonally back and strode on ahead to the plane with Mrs. Darnell's carry-on bag.

"Well," said Mrs. Darnell, "my fantasy was more than satisfactory, Lawrence, even though it wasn't quite what I expected."

"Begging your pardon, madam, but Baldwin acts as though…" Lawrence began.

"Yes," said Mrs. Darnell with a quiet sigh. "As though nothing has changed."

Roarke smiled. "And yet we know that the smallest ripple sent out into the sea of life finally reaches the farthest shore, don't we, Mrs. Darnell?"

"Yes, Mr. Roarke," she agreed, "but in our case, we know it's more than a ripple…it's a tidal wave. And I'm going to do everything in my power to keep that storm raging."

"Then may I wish you both a turbulent but happy voyage, Mrs. Darnell," Roarke said, and she thanked him, laughing, before shaking Lawrence's hand.

Then she turned to Leslie. "The only namesake I've ever met yet," she said and placed a hand on each of the girl's cheeks. "Thank you for the support you gave Marshall and me. I'll never forget your kindness."

"I really hope it all works out for you," Leslie said. "Maybe, if you're so inclined, you could write and let me know."

Mrs. Darnell grinned. "I'll certainly do that. All the best, Leslie."

"And to you," she responded, watching the lady head for the plane dock, where Baldwin stood waiting. She received a parting lei before turning to wave at them; then she gave Leslie a knowing look and a broad wink before deliberately reaching out and taking Baldwin's hand to pull him the rest of the way along the ramp with her. Leslie chortled and exchanged delighted looks with Roarke and Lawrence.

The second rover delivered Edmond Rome and Julie Mars; there was only friendly cheer on Julie's face this morning, Leslie noticed, and she found herself watching her father very closely. "Well," Roarke greeted them, "Ms. Mars, Mr. Rome, from all reports, the film festival was quite a success."

"Bringing Julie back to the stage was really the big event of the festival," Rome said. "By the way, I'll send you tickets for the opening night." He reached out to shake Roarke's hand as the latter chuckled and thanked him. Leslie opened her mouth to protest, but Roarke took just a second to shake his head at her, and she subsided.

"Thanks again for everything," said Julie, sounding remarkably impersonal. "Goodbye, Mr. Roarke, Lawrence, Leslie." She smiled, then started away for the plane.

There was a strange expression on Lawrence's face, and both Roarke and Leslie noticed, looking at each other before Roarke addressed him. "Something wrong, Lawrence?"

"I'm quite astonished by Ms. Mars' behavior," Lawrence said in befuddlement, staring after Julie.

"Oh?" inquired Roarke, looking amused.

"Yes," he said, joining in their collective final farewell wave. "She acts as though you were just casual acquaintances!"

"Hers was a very special fantasy, Lawrence," Roarke said. "To make it a reality, she in effect had to drink from the waters of Lethe."

"You mean, forget the past?" asked Lawrence, very surprised.

Roarke smiled. "Only a part, Lawrence. Only a very small part."

§ § § - April 21, 2007

When Roarke and Leslie finished, the listeners were subdued for a few minutes, considering everything they'd learned; then Christian studied his wife until she felt his gaze on her and turned to him. "Something wrong, my love?"

"Once and only once, hm, my Rose?" he asked teasingly. "Ah, the certainty of youth."

Roarke laughed. "That was just my thought that evening," he said, making Christian break into laughter too.

Leslie made a good-natured face. "Well, you know teenagers—they're convinced they know everything there is to know, and they don't learn otherwise for decades sometimes. I didn't fully understand how anyone could have more than one great love till I fell in love with you, Christian, and then I realized what Father must have gone through with Julie and Helena. And it's funny, he loved one a little more than the other—just as I love you more than I loved Teppo."

Christian nodded, smiling; then his hazel eyes took on a twinkle. "The two of you must have been certain it was a grand coincidence that you, Mr. Roarke, met both Ms. Mars and Mrs. Marsh on Valentine's Day."

"Mars and Marsh," broke in Myeko, bolting upright in her seat. "Do you hear that? Only one letter's difference in their surnames! On top of everything else…I mean…this is positively _cosmic!"_

"You don't think they might've been very distantly related somehow, do you?" Diane suggested facetiously. "Like immigrant families who take two similar but differing versions of the original family surname?" That brought on more laughter.

"Well, back to the Valentine's Day thing," Leslie said, steering the conversation back on track, "even Father thought it was just another funny little thing that he'd met them both on separate Valentine's Days. Until that party we had a couple of months ago, and it turned out that rascal Cupid was responsible."

"Cupid has quite a bit to answer for," commented Roarke dryly, which set off more laughter before the grandfather clock chimed and captured everyone's attention.

"Oh my gosh, I had no idea it was that late," cried Michiko. "I wanted to reminisce, but I didn't want to trap everyone in here till the small hours. I'm so sorry."

"Don't apologize, we all had a blast," Leslie assured her.

Roarke smiled. "As long as we could help you, that's the important thing."

"You did help," Michiko said, smiling at everyone. "It's been wonderful, and I thank you all for being here—especially you, Mr. Roarke and Leslie, for being willing to give your time just for me."

"Let's try to do it again sometime," Diane said. "This has been the most fun weekend I ever had." A general consensus went up at that, and Roarke and Leslie looked at each other and grinned secretly. They'd had the most fun of all!

* * *

><p><em>I had such a great time writing this, I probably could have gone on with five or six more fantasies, but I'll leave that for some future tale. This entire story took up three printed chapters for my personal collection as it was! I'll probably take a bit of a break till June, and give myself a chance to decide which idea I'll develop for my next tale.<em>

_In the meantime, here are the credits for the eight episodes I adapted for this story, in the order they appear (I give credits only for the characters I used):_

_The Mermaid / The Victim__: original airdate December 1, 1979; with Mary Ann Mobley (Amanda DeHaven), John Saxon (Professor Harold DeHaven), Michelle Phillips (Nyah), Joan Prather (Julie Brett), James Darren (Michael Duval), Cathryn O'Neil (Annie), Robin Riker (Fran), Dorothy Stratten (Mickey), and Candi and Randi Brough as the twins_

_The Inventor / On the Other Side__: original airdate December 15, 1979; with Arte Johnson (Professor Duane Clebe), Marcia Wallace (Martha Meeks), Alex Rodine (André the Russian), Barney Phillips (Mason), MacDonald Carey (Hobart), Stone Bower (CIA man), Harv Selsby (reporter), Jeanette Nolan (Irma Gideon), Ike Eisenmann (Keith Gideon), Stefan Gierasch (Zoltan), and Chip Hayes (medtech). Also features an uncredited John Larroquette as André's Russian sidekick!_

_The Man From Yesterday / The World's Most Desirable Woman__: original airdate January 31, 1981; with Dennis Cole (Major Kelvin Doyle), Martin Milner (Bill Keating/Jed Morrison), Elizabeth Baur (Mrs. Keating/Miss Carson), Rummel Mor (Petie), Barbi Benton (Carla Baines/Marcia Garnett), Bert Convy (Hal Garnett), M. G. Kelly (Strutton the photographer), and Cindee Appleton (Trish)_

_King Arthur in Mr. Roarke's Court / Shadow Games__: original airdate January 23, 1982; with Tom Smothers (Ralph Rodgers), Robert Mandan (King Arthur), Carol Lynley (Queen Guinevere), Linda Blair (Sara Jean Rawlins), Donny Most (Todd Porter/Billy Williams), and Peter Mark Richman (Sam Treacher)_

_Funny Man / Tattoo, the Matchmaker__: original airdate February 20, 1982; with Jimmy Dean (Beau Gillette), Vicki Lawrence (Jenny Casey), Jeanette Nolan (Mama), Morgan Woodward (Uncle Jack), Linda Thompson Jenner (Cousin Lindy), Skip Stephenson (Ambrose Tuttle), Laurie Walters (Harriet Wilson), and Misty Rowe (Claudia Mills)_

_Revenge of the Forgotten / Charo__: original airdate February 19, 1983; with Steve Kanaly (Alan Daly), Marjoe Gortner (Loren Robertson), Christine Belford (Marian Robertson), Russ Marin (auctioneer), Charo (Maria Diaz), Van Johnson (Charles Woodruff), Nancy Kulp (Mrs. Pomproy), Federico Roberto (General Rodriguez), Carmen Zapata (Tia Gina), Carlos LaCamara (Cousin Rudolpho), and Richard Paradise (French ambassador)_

_Forbidden Love / The Other Man—Mr. Roarke__: original airdate October 8, 1983; with Juliet Prowse (Margaret Smith), James Houghton (Jeffrey Dorner), Jamie Rose (Virginia Smith), Stephanie Faracy (Deborah Barnes), Richard Kline (Dennis Payne), Douglas Alan Shanklin (Mr. Anderson), and David Fletcher (the waiter)_

_Roarke's Sacrifice / The Butler's Affair__: original airdate November 12, 1983; with Cyd Charisse (Julie Mars), Cesar Romero (Edmond Rome), Lee Meriwether (Leslie Darnell), Efrem Zimbalist, Jr. (Marshall Baldwin), Ruta Lee (Rachel Andrews), Terry Moore (Audrey Wilkins), Ian Abercrombie (McShane), and Kathryn Daley (Carol). I was able to add some extra scenes thanks to a script of this episode._

_And the coincidence in dates that Leslie and Roarke discussed in the next-to-last chapter? It's true! The episode in which Roarke and Helena Marsh fell in love aired November 11, 1978, and the one in which they were married aired on November 3, 1979. I had to fudge the date Julie Mars had supposedly gotten her knee injury to keep Roarke from seeming like a two-timing cad! It was fun creating an explanation for those too-close-for-comfort dates…_


End file.
